Imagine a friend,
In a faraway land,
Or in the next town over.
You’re connected by words typed out in the apps across the land,
Or across the oceans.
The friendship flourished across the wifi. It was fun, while it lasted.
You search the words from before…did something happen?
Did someone fall ill, or die?
You search for other words elsewhere. Writers write, they can’t help themselves.
They type the words, hit publish.
Is there a hidden message? A cryptic secret inside the prose?
It’s like a curse, this writing. Or maybe a blessing.
But it’s futile.
You cannot find the elusive truth in clandestine tales.
You wonder in silence,
Reach out, your hearts says.
Leave it, your brain counters.
You find out later that death did occur for one.
In others, it was life that happened.
You make assumptions, but you don’t know.
It’s complicated. It always is.
Nothing is simple anymore.
You find a way to help yourself. It’s the only way.
You turn inward.
Your friends are still there, even when they’re not.
You want to believe it.
You make it so. Inside your head and inside your heart.
Revel in the solitude, your brain tells you.
This is how the words come.
And then, you look in the mirror.
Can you see it, the truth?