And you never will.
No one has heard from me in months.
But I’ll tell you one thing.
While you were searching the internet for my name,
I was making art. I was making love. I was holding hands with myself.
Sometimes it’s better to be invisible.
Like a ghost hiding behind a curtain.
As the world performs,
I write my own script.
And the stanzas flow.
I want to change the story, destroy the plot, turn the pages inside out, and twist them until every last drop of blood red ink is wrung out.
But I can’t.
It’s hard to see so much in one day. In one minute. In one second.
The climax builds with ever tick of the clock.
And perhaps we all drew the wrong conclusion.
Maybe next time the premise will be clear and concise.
Because life is messy.
And only the lonely understands why I prefer to write in the fog.
And it’s okay…
Because you’re no longer a part of the story.
You’ve been cut out.
Maybe that makes me the antagonist of my own story.
Maybe I am the hero that defeats the villain.
Perhaps we’ll all find out in the end.