Dear etch-a-sketch,
Dear shadow of the internet,
Dear cyber closet,
Dear digital corner...
Whichever you prefer to be called,
I miss you. But I have nothing for you.
I feel like a negligent parent. Or better yet, a mother who has to give up her child for adoption. Because, how is she supposed to care for a baby when she can barely care for herself?
I barely get through the day. I'll read a few sentences of Emerson, get restless, leave on a walk to nowhere, come home, and somehow the sun is still in middle of the sky, laughing at my sorry excuse for a pass time and my horribly sun-splotched shoulders.
There are far too many times when I want to be silent for days and then the following week I won't shut up. I crave the company of others, but it always leaves me unsatisfied... like fine dining. It's lovely, but I can't seem to be able to appropriately appreciate it. It's this dissatisfaction that leads me to my last resort: my brain. But lately, it's been about as intriguing as a group of senile octogenarians playing canasta.
I'm sure it's during times like these that people turn to religion. I can't imagine why. The last thing I would seek comfort in is an intimidating-looking book with passages that hold more ambiguity than fortune cookies. Actually, when expressed in that fashion it sounds rather refreshing...
You've no idea the amount of effort that was required to type these few inarticulate and nonsensical lines. Forgive me?
