You may not know me, or realize who I actually am. You may think that as absurd, the author who doesn't even understand their own character, but you don't. You don't know the inbetweens of my episodes, and mindless chatter that mumbles around when you're not typing. The constant buzz that sometimes hits the back of my head because I squinted too long, staring into the sun on the day you had me sit outside in all black. You don't know my ticks and cynical affirmations, the pupil that dilates more than the other, the mole that lays on my inner thigh. These things aren't in our book.
These are tiny notions that don't matter to you. These are little things that you don't bother paying attention to, not enough to even realize that I can hear you, creating my world, creating my void. You are the voice I hear before I go to sleep. The fear I have when I run away from the door, pretending to not exist, as the postman climbs his way into my territory to lay a box of shit you just made me buy on Amazon, on my door step. I know who you are, but you do not know me. I say that because a person won't fit into a 235 page book about angst and being awkward. I say that because you refuse to try and get to understand beyond the 235 pages, that there is no "end" to your book, but a fragment of my life.
So, when you decide to stick your head out of your ass, and listen. Listen to my calls, my tears, my laughter, my passive-aggressive communication. Listen to me, as I watch the world around me like a wallflower, wishing, waiting, for someone to talk. Listen to me, and realize, that you might be the author, but I am the adventure.
Love (kinda, sorta, but not really),
you know who
P.S. My favorite color isn't burgundy, it's forest green.