Do I care that you read this?
I suppose I do. Otherwise I wouldn't be writing.
I am not writing for myself. These are my thoughts, I know what they're going to say.
I know the nonsense that will spill out from my synapses before it does. I know the carefully crafted metaphors that will stain your screen before they do so. I know what I think, because I think it.
I don't know what you're thinking though. Isn't that funny?
It's an odd thing to think about, but I do it often. Why am I me? Why am I not someone else? Why can't I know the perspectives of someone else?
I suppose if we could do that, the world would be a better place: more empathetic, less hopeless and indifferent.
That's uncharacteristically optimistic for me.
A sigh snuck it's way past her parted lips as she sat down, leg crossed over another. Her head fell into her hand. Her eyes shut as if weighed down by a ballast of sorrow.
You're an interesting one.
