Oh. I did this a while ago when I was learning illustrator but I still kind of like it. I guess it’s a good break from the monotony of “dark” imagery or whatever.
Oh wait, it’s still dark.
Fuck you Zorua, I took your advice and now I’m an anti-social, world-denying recluse.
Dear Stranger,
I’ve taken to writing again. I haven’t written since we were children.
Do you remember what it was like back then? When everything was whole, before we clawed wailing and weeping out of an eggshell of a world, compelled out of naive envy for those kaleidoscope eyes for which our mothers, our fathers and our heroes gave up their own? It was our own hands that clutched and tore at the albumen coating us like nectar, our clenched fists that pounded the drumbeat of revolution into the carbonate crystals until they shook and quivered and sighed our slimy naked bodies into this place. Here we are forced to demarcate the space between waking and dreaming, between inner and outer, between past and present, between here and there, between you and me.
I miss you, not like I miss the warmth of a body, or the scent of a neck, or the seesaw swell of a chest when it floats hesitatingly on an ocean of sleep.
I miss you, I miss the hum of your thoughts where they were once intertwined with mine, our neurons criss-crossing and sparking and igniting and burning like a dying sun.
Nowadays, I sit alone, trying to pick up those little fragments of our eggshell, bits and pieces of what we once were before our unnatural delivery. Maybe someday, I’ll get it all together again. I’ll call you.
Thanks for waiting for me,
Nobody
