A Unread Message.

Labeled Old Post Letters Antique Envelope Paper

Dear Stranger.

I am a writer. Fact.

I write for my own pleasure, yet I seek the praise of people I don’t wish to care about. Not because they aren’t pleasant people, but because they are faceless humans which hold no true power over my life, still I need to hear their voices.

How do you enter this world, this toxic world, how do you avoid it, when it’s the only platform which allows your work to be displayed?

How do I overcome these obstacles when I’m worried that every corner I turn, there will be a demon ready to destroy me with a single word; a word that shouldn’t render me powerless.

Maybe I too, am just a faceless human in a crowd, who vent her feelings to someone who sees her as such.

Maybe I just need to talk to a stranger, someone who lives in a different world and place then I do.

To me you are just a man, you wear the faces of many and I don’t know the real you and I’m not here to find out.

Yet I’m compelled to write.

I’m compelled to send.

And I’m compelled to reach out…

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