Did you notice me sitting on the curb behind the green Mustang, covered in shadows? Of course not, because if I was covered in shadows how would you notice me? I must remember to stop being ignorant, and asking ignorant hypothetical questions. But sometimes I want to be "artsy", do you know how it feels to want something bad enough to fake for it?

They tell me I am already "artsy", that my creativity flows from my fingertips into my brushes and onto the canvas. They tell me I am adept at capturing emotions for the world to see. They also tell me that I will be famous someday. Do you ever wish to be famous? I am never without the desire. It feeds on my soul like so many ravenous third-world children, gnawing away inside me. It's become a dull ache, which flares to life everytime I see a person who has the fame I want so badly. Fame which they received because of something mediocre, something I know I could emulate, improve on, make my own.

But I noticed you as you crossed the road, hand clasped around your sisters. She pulled you forward, laughing, little eyes squinted against the sun, and you followed willingly behind her, your own laughter floating towards me in streams. I wish I could make you into a cardboard cut out to place in my room. Something lifeless, something with just the appearance of being you. Because of my experience with people in general, I know that if I got close to you, close enough to see your insides, I probably wouldn't like you. But we'll save that for another day, won't we?

For now I am content with the memory of your face and your body. It is a blind passion, but passion nonetheless.

Goodbye,