“I want in fact more of you. In my mind I am dressing you with light; I am wrapping you up in blankets of complete acceptance and then I give myself to you. I long for you; I who usually long without longing, as though I am unconscious and absorbed in neutrality and apathy, really, utterly long for every bit of you.”
__ Franz Kafka
Today I write to you since you didn’t come back home before dawn while your promises lied. And as the families and lovers of the missing children and adults fear, I fear for the only thing still left, hope. I fear for your sanity and your existence, while I am pretty sure of your survival.
I am sure that you must be lying in someone’s bed, a cigarette between your teeth, your bare body covered with a blanket; what I am not sure is about your sanity. I am sure you find it dope, cigarettes were dope when you were a child and your friends laughed when you said you don’t smoke, it became an addiction soon after.
You do not believe in the idea of bits and pieces and that is why you never smoke a little, you smoke more and more, until your lungs start giving up. I have seen you laughing hysterically and then puke one day after you smoked some weed, and whom I am kidding I laughed a little too, and wrote a short story on you. Once you regain your senses I remind you to control your addiction, and you repeat the lines that you have repeated all along:
It is not me who needs to stop, but you, for you are the disturbance to a reality that does not exist, whereas I am just an entropy.
You once threatened me that you’ll sue me for all my short stories that come from you, I laughed and you walked off.
I wouldn’t deny that I was once attracted myself, I was attracted by your words that exoticised the nature, you helped me write all I did. You were high each time you said something I could recreate, you had no sense of plagiarism. Drugs are also dope, because you saw a guy on a tv show richer than ever, high on meth.
I have found writing way harder than I usually do and with the memory power I possess I tend to forget the things I come up with. Earlier today I thought I would write a letter to you, and send it. through the post office, the letter has been long overdue and it seems like the postbox isn’t where I last saw it.
It vanquished in thin air, as if it was never there, the same way you did, one day, in the split of a second, and as soon as the ink dried off…….