Note: This is not the present mood. Incompletely written it four days ago, but by the time I want to finish it, I am another.
I know, you aren't with me. I also know that I shouldn't expect any miracles from you. The only reason that I am addressing you is, after listening to my low-quality complaints, unlike my good friends, you would neither irritate me with your presence nor can disappoint me being away. I trust your blindness, so I do not expect you to heed me.
I have problems with the components you've used in making me. I'm suffering from the undergrowth of my brain. You should have allowed it to grow along with me. It behaves as if it is thirteen instead of thirty. You should have left me with my initial belief (or a learned lesson?) that poetry is good for nothing and reading the same books cannot be traced back to any similarity in personae. You should have made me strong enough to hold myself up without writing these letters to "Dear God" in whose existence I only half believe. I half-believe, I address you. I trust your blindness and I complain to you. My theology is a Mobius strip.
