Strangely, yours can be a letter which may be delivered, what with many technological advances and technical determinations. Yet, did you ever recieve one? Perhaps not. Perhaps because you have always given one who wants to connect with you a feeling that one can connect with you anyway. Perhaps. Under any circumstance, you are a dear. With almost everyone. That, I guess, is your speciality. You are devoured by everyone with a personal love. You are owned by everyone.
Yet, as I look out, you stand alone. All by yourself, singular in the vast sky. Not even stars for company. Or, that is what is visible. I feel bad for you tonight. Everyone who loves you must be loving you with something else that you remind of. Much like your aura, and light -- borrowed. I write this letter from that point of concurrence. Brightening lives with borrowed light. Sharing a known sad smile.
You disperse a minimum of million thoughts the world over when you rise in full pomp and glory, costumed by a romanticism of decadence. Of anything. Yet, you are here untouched by anyone, not near to all those who glorify you, love you. Am I expressing this bit in surplus too? See, you do that.
Do not be shadowed by the enlightenment of this letter. In a couple of days you will go into hibernation anyway. And the world's poets will sing of your absence, and painters attempt to colour darkness. All the while when you are still as much there, silent, watching. And me, I will be watching you grow back to celebrations of defeated diffidence. I know.
Solely,
K.
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