For hurricane, from drizzle

Hi.

It's just me. again. And it's the usual long "on-and-off" disturbance of "how's the weather?" —which I supposed to write 'how are you?' but just doesn't have the guts to write so— that I always do. That you've been cope up with for the last 5 years.

What do the rest of us asks while existing in this small blue planet?
Scientists asks 'How'.
Philosophers asks 'Why'.
While the rest might just asks 'What'. I think we are in that smaller, specialized or rather marginalized one or two percent of that smaller part.
Us, the fools, the mess, who tends to ask... 'What if?'

I'm the fool. Always been. And you're always the mess. That beautiful mess.

And the fact that I'm thinking to sending this anxiously through [insert social messenger app name] makes me more foolish.
I don't know if you still use this [messenger app] or not.
And I don't know if you're going to read this or not.

Because if turns out you don't use it anymore, then this foolish message would just go into the Internet Limbo space, the cyber dustbin of history.

and forever floating in deconstructed forms of abstract emotionless datas. screaming unspoken longings and whispers your half-cut nickname in eternal endless echo.

And if that one possibility is not happening, I would already find myself again in the state of "What if?"

As I have always been.

Your insecure friend,
Drizzle