Dear Benedict

letter: o n e

dear benedict,

today, i came to the realization that the world is deeply sick.

not the kind of sick you feel when you're stuck in bed with the flu or a high fever, but the kind of sick that is invisible. the kind of sick that you don't notice until you're too far gone to even realize that there was a point in your life before such a sick existed.

the kind of sickness that can only be described as sickness of the mind.

i also realized that you, benedict, are one of it's many sickly inhabitants.

you must'nt have realized it yet, or maybe you have, but you're surely part of the black sick spreading across the earth as we speak.

the worst part, though, is that i am also part of the sick and i cannot find a way to reverse it.

my mind is already too far gone, and i'm afraid that there isn't a way to go back, to rewind our way through all the bad things until we land on a particularly good thing.

i wish it were possible though, that way you and i at least had some kind of chance to get better.

with a world already so infected, there is next to no hope for the infected to become normal again. we're all what some might call a lost cause, but i can't help but hope that such a thing isn't true.

afterall, there is nothing without hope.

and that's the biggest difference between you and i, benedict; where i long for a way to get better, to make others better, you continue to spread your sickness to the others around you, and i've come to realize that maybe, just maybe, you're the reason that i became infected in the first place.

maybe you were the one to ignite the thoughts that always run through my mind now, but none of that matters when i haven't got anyone left but you, benedict.

that's the real irony; i've got no one left but you, and you're the one who's responsible for the way i am.

i only wish i could hate you.

signed,

mindless