to write to the real You. There are so many stories, but when I sit down or lie confortably, I dream of You. I even dream of a You that is bigger than I could ever dream.
You are big in the hands of my mind. I still feel so small when we compare our statues and yours is 7′ wider and I’m swallowed up, like a Cardiff Kook.
In any case, You, I am still writing You these legacy letters that I will never read or send, but they didn’t tell me not to read, think or write about You in those judges chambers. He never asked me to stop thinking, or did he? I’m not sure, but as I write I can hear my heart beating in my right ear and it’s going faster than is perhaps healthy..
Regardless, we are no doctors, lawyers or judges either and clearly it was You who cyber attacked me, then you played judge to your own victimhood in that room where you suited up to read me your writes about being right about writing. What a mess we are right now….and Yikes, this is a public pickle, isn’t it?
There is literally nothing I am going to do, but go to bed and repeat whatever mantra suits me about writing, like…
*I am a safe person*
*I am safe*