I used to bother you all the time with my problems and concerns because I found it easier to talk to you than to talk to live people or ignore the problem. I suppose you are that middle ground.
You are a sort of narcissists diary.
I spill my guts in the dark of the night, never wanting my mother to find out, but with the secret hope that someone will read and understand or think I am cool, mainly because I understand and think I am cool but still need someone to reaffirm my belief.
Like leaving my journal open on a table at Starbucks and watching people who read it's reaction from across the lobby.
Why am I always more honest with you, my dear Cyberland? It isn't that you don't talk back -- you do, and in fact, I want you to. I don't understand why, but your little notes left under the names of people I often don't know or haven't actually seen in years, warm my heart.
Perhaps, at four am, in a person's brain that is constantly keeping things to itself, there needs to be some relief.
Thank you for being the blood thinners to my constantly thought pulsing brain. And thank you for being worldwide, so that at least you have not changed since we last met in the little computer alcove in Scappoose when I was 19.
Perhaps our reuniting proves that I haven't either.
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