It doesn't bother me that you will
never see this. I don't mean to pretend that I am keeping all of this
a secret. I'm not like that. Some things are meant to be seen by all,
others are meant to be seen only by their creator. In that sense, I
am God. Theses letters, the paper they are written on, are all the
humble believers of my existence. Without any hint of doubt they
accept my plan as fate. They keep me company. And their loyalty fills
me with a sense of not only pride, but also narcissism. I am their
one and only – the most important. As I write the letters on the
paper, each greets me with a sense of anticipation. The letters proud
that they stand for my word. The paper maintains the honor of
supporting the weight of my ideas. Together they create a bond that
lifts me above anything that this world can create.
And you. You are the critic, the
cynic. With a glance you make it all dissolve. You strike down my
morale. The letters begin to falter, and the paper can no longer bear
the pressure of my hand. Your eyes cast a look of doubt that shakes
my every belief to its core. As I write I catch your gaze and feel my
confidence wane. Each iris seals a ring of doubt around my mind, and
your pupils probe my soul searching for my true aim. You are the
Lucifer doubting my system. And your eyes are the renegade angels at
your back ready to stand fast. From across the room you question my
will and ability to hold my ground. For that, I hate you.
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