An Open Letter

I'd like to write about me in the plainest words,or better yet, not utilize a human tongue at all.

For words are seldom meaningful and only sketch where they should strive to care and thoughtfully describe the detailed truths and hidden lies.

Yet still I wish to write of me; explain, in detailed sketches things I do not understand nor ever hope to have explained.

Consider this an open letter; friend to friend, from fool to fools, a message to the wind:

Were I to tell you of myself in person, not in written word. I'd joke, tell excerpts of my life and never show the storm inside.

This storm, so meagrely describedby all I'll ever do or say is source of what goes on in me of motion, movement, peace and strife.

It leads me from without within me and lets me dream the world outside with waking eyes and fully conscious paints the ways in front of me.

In some ways I am good and righteous or at least prefer to be shown other situations you would surely break your ties with me.

I've often lied and never killed. I cannot break this habit and likewise I get down at least a week or two a year.

But still I pray to god of men if only to my own and fear the devils, hastily described by words of them.

I'm not much use for talking with or entertaining strangers; have my fears and prejudice both based on facts and not.

I tend to talk for hours and days if I find any point to start and yet tend not to talk at all for even longer terms if not.

Yours dearly, the writer, who feels that an ending to this special letter would somehow be wrong, but whose limited lifetime prevents her from adding more details to maps of her mind like this.