So, for some reason, at 2 in the morning, I decided to start writing fictional letters to my non-fictional, AKA real, sister in the case that we had never seen each other face to face, yet we live directly across from each other, but lived in a household with insane parents who forever forbid us from having any connection with each other. Supposedly, we both have schedules from when we can leave our room and when we have to stay inside, because if not, our parents would murder us. Just kidding. But for some reason this story/idea popped into my head, even though it sounds really bad and incomplete, I think I might continue writing it, but better. Yes, better. But it still won’t be good, but I’ll enjoy writing it anyways. I didn’t write out the full names quite yet. Don’t know if I’m ready to release my real name just yet. Maybe in 5 years. Kidding. I will discreetly add it into one of my blog entries though…maybe.
Ernest Hemingway said one should write in the earliest of mornings, from 6:00 AM to noon; a total of six hours. How about from 12:00 AM to 6:00 AM. That shouldn’t be so bad.
The parents won’t let me do that.
Have you ever noticed how parents are like the law of the household, and we are the citizens. The very small population of citizens… It’s like the parents are walking, talking books of law roaming suspiciously around the house, except they have nothing on the legendary-ness of the U.S Constitution, because at least the Constitution has human rights, you know?
There’s no way out of this hellhole friend.
At least we have each other…kind of?
Do you think the parents will ever let us meet?
Remember in my last letter, when I said we have each other, but only kind of? I don’t really have your human body with me, that’s being literal, but I do have your thoughts, you know? And it’s the brain that really makes up the human being, not the actual body. The body is just a way for humans to communicate.
To be honest, I think if God had just created us as walking brains, we would have developed some form of telekinesis, and we wouldn’t have any insecurity, cause then we’d all be fugly, and looks wouldn’t matter so much anymore, because we would be, well, brains with legs; walking brains. Life would be good that way.
I still wish I could see your face, so then your brain could be closer to mine and I could feel your thoughts, instead of just reading them and hearing them in my head. But to be honest, I can feel them, roaming the vast dusty emptiness in my brain, and its nice, because I don’t really have anyone else to talk to.
You know what this reminds me of? You’ve got Mail. The movie with Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan and that dog. I never understood the importance of that dog’s role in the movie. It’s kind of useless, but then again, why not add in the most adorable dog known to movie screens everywhere other than Lassie? I don’t think people gave enough credit to the dog’s adorableness. It makes me sad. I guess that’s all I have in my head right now add all I feel like writing. Sorry for the never-ending lack of entertainment. I’ll try to write better letters to you. But for some reason I’m not feeling anything today. I’m a human, I can’t help the unconscientious vacant feeling of nothing. Bam. Now there’s a quality sentence. Maybe not. Can you tell how insecure and indecisive I am yet? Because I am.