Stranger Anxiety (circa 2019)

Dear T.R,

Parker, the messenger bird, sent me to you.

Before you, there was nothing in this ocean of fables -- not for me or anyone else. You entered a mystical stranger who entranced me with your beautiful art. Your words are that of crimson. You watch over me with such softness. Discarded pieces, which others admired not, you saw as beautiful in your critical eyes. You saw me. I don’t know your face. However, I imagine you with a bold brow and gentle smile. 

My heart has been unfamiliar with this feeling for so long. What exactly is this fondness which beckons me to cling to every statement you make? It’s not love. I’ve never loved before, but it is not that. Admiration? I’ve admired many, and it is not that. I don’t know what this is, but there is something I know for certain.

I fear you. The anxiety I feel when speaking to you is too real to not exist. You are kind; you are supportive; you enjoy my work. I need to please you, I must. I must be perfect. If not, you will disappear. Please understand. Understand that because of that, you will never see this.

Best regards,

xxxxx