Dear Mr. Snow,

11Apr08

I just finished a book that made me fear writing honestly. A villainous character deduced that when people write stories, they generally write about themselves. Their fiction actually representing truths. My eyes and fingertips grew with worry since I knew that’s how I’ve been writing my prose and poetry. While fear of being found out surrounds me, the narcissist in me can’t concede to password protect these entries. I secretly want the world to read my stories and deduce who I’m writing ravenously about.

It’s a vicious cycle of vanity.

So why am I writing to you Mr. Snow?

Because you are an oddity.  Victim to my cold shoulder aches.  Your laughter causes waves of irritation and sudden spurts of teeth grinding.  Attempting to comprehend your supposed abundance of knowledge leaves me tired and frustrated.

I sometimes feel a thought bubble over my head giving way to my thoughts,

“You

are

not

all

that

and

a

bag

of

chicharon”

If you were, then I wouldn’t be spitting haterade on a cold winter day like it would sell for a hundred big ones a glass.

If you were, then my eyes wouldn’t roll so far behind my head it would take archaeological expeditions to find them.

If you were, then the stars would have aligned and the goddess would have never angrily trembled in the waters.

These words. These spiteful words, while they are a figment of my imaginative veneer, do not wholly explain my feelings toward you.

On a good day I see you as an insecure, worried, awkward dope who is simply trying to find a niche in a sea of rubber bands.  Bravado is your way of covering up your insecurities.  Sense of self gives way to propagating your self righteousness on an audience that you simply do not realize doesn’t care about you.

And why should they?

They do not care what you think because you do not feel they are intelligent enough to comprehend your point of view.  They don’t care if you turn your nose up at them because you never were on their radar in the first place.

And you know what…I know it bothers you.

When you’ve treated the nosebleed caused from your bruised ego and you step down from the epic soap box of a pedestal maybe you’ll finally be able to see that those folks may have helped you if you only gave them a certain amount of respect.  I think you’d be surprised.  The lambs dancing in the crowds, might have helped you out if you only took the time to genuinely explain your passion.

And I’ve seen that look in your eyes.  You want to dance, you just don’t know the steps.

Come down to earth, the lambs just might teach you them.

Laura the Lamb

Filed under: Uncategorized   |  Leave a Comment