Dear ghost,
The ravishing sentiment that spill from the edge of my existence, command me to seize it. To be in control of my dreams in making. To be aware of my slumber in hide. Yet all the clouds that waver in my visions are the symbols of my chronic thoughts. I could establish the origin of my anxiety. Of what I am deadly afraid and of all that I am truly made of. But when the winter of my fall rages, the only one that lost the war is me. The only one that destroyed me is the very mind that makes me whole. Therefore, I forget. I stupify my thoughts. I am the fool in the room but the happiest fool.
Yours