Dear You

So, I'm me.
And you're you.

And I'm writing this thing that you are reading. – A chasm in time. A perpetual conundrum. – This must be the stuff of time machines.

Perhaps you'll forget – most probably – most definitely – you'll forget this that I'm writing that you're reading. And why shouldn't you? These are my stories to tell, and even I forget them once in a while. If you're going to remember anything at all, you're better off remembering your own stories, right?

What that takes me a day, or weeks, or years, to write, you take a few minutes to read. You know, I'm just like a secret admirer, writing you love letters, and leaving them here and hoping that you'll find them and that you'll like them and like me a little bit more.

I hope, but of course I dare not to hope too much, that one day, something exciting will happen between us. That's how I comfort myself when I am waiting in front of the computer, sometimes late into the night, looking forward to it.

I don't know what is going to happen. I don't even want to imagine. No expectations, no disappointments.

In fact, I take back the confession altogether and let's just say that I only wrote what you read for dramatic or comic effect.

I'm me, and you're you, after all.

Yours Sincerely,
Me.