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To the distinguished unspecified person or object reading this,


The one thing that I must tell you about myself, is that I am not who you think I am. Right now, I may have thick, long, black hair which sways when I walk, and which reaches six inches below my shoulders. But one day, you may be surprised to see that I am completely bald, either that, or I have hatefully short hair.


At some point, you may look at me, sitting in one corner, and, upon finding a person (or thing) to talk to, I might jump around, laugh and shout. And then you might go about, and encountering me once more, and find that I am crying. Then you run, as you might think that I am crazy, and find yourself looking at me once more, as I direct rage upon an unsuspecting individual. Then, at the turn of the corner, you see me once more, giving advice and comforting a hurt soul. And then you run away, with every step you take making hard, heavy sounds, and with your breath turning into gasps for air.

There was only one way to turn now.

Right.

And run under the faint lights of the stars. And a dead end has trapped you. Cul de sac was the seemingly unfortunate destiny which has been bestowed upon you. And, as you quickly gasp for air, as your eyes feel sore from the lack of light, and as your trembling fingers feel around the solid diamond walls as an attempt of finding a way out, a figure appears.

And it was I.

I walked towards you, observed you at every angle possible in my position, saw that you are trying to break open a pure diamond wall with your fists, wondered about the bewildered expression on your troubled face, and thought you were insane.

I was afraid.

I walked away from you, hoping that I did not catch your attention, that you might not follow me.

To my horror, you followed me.

And so you did. Race did your heart, as the fire of curiosity burned it down. Your thoughts were filled with questions whether who I was, or whether or not I thought you were insane. You caught up, almost. And at the thirteenth turn, another dead end was there. No light, no sound, and, almost, no air.

And, suspiciously, no me.

So now, you go online, with the hopes of finding the identity of that strange girl who thinks you suffered from mental retardation. And you end up here, another Cul de sac. Whether you find it serendipitous, coincidental, or peculiar, I seriously, truly, don't care.

And now, you read this.

Cul de sac.

And every memory of that event you recall.

Cul de sac.

And then you scroll up to find that you can't recall a memory, because whatever I am writing now is only a possibility, and not fact, distinguished by the words "might" or "may" in my second paragraph.

Cul de sac.

And you find that worthless strands of your thought have scrambled, and now you are left befuddled. You couldn't understand anything.

Cul de sac.

What you must understand is that I truly wasn't making any sense, and there was nothing to understand in the first place.

Cul de sac.

~♥ wee
~☺ tra-lala-la-la
*does hyper dance*
*stops*
*returns to computer*
*types*

Bwahahahahahahahaha STOP. There's nothing much anymore STOP. And I seriously don't know what a telegram machine looks like STOP. But that is totally irrelevant STOP. And I want you to stop reading this STOP. Please stop STOP.

Do not be alarmed,
Mminrie Ré L'Batra

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