The Illusion Of Being With You

How often have I written of you, and to you, simply for the illusion of being with you?

My compatriot in so many thoughts, the one whose ways light a candle for some of my highest actions, I wonder if you have any idea who you are?

Would you recognize yourself as the little boy who grows up to be my hero? Are my reflections on you anything like those you see in your mirror?

You and I think so much a like that I know you must wonder, but do you really know? I know how close I have come to telling you, but conscience draws that line in the dust that must never be crossed. One false step and the line becomes a barbed wire fence, forever barring me from these silly little joys of mine. I dare not deny myself these pleasures, because sometimes they are all that lies between me and the harsh reality of a world that is not so kind as you are.

And you are the epitome of kindness. Were there a mythological god called Kindness, he would have your face and do your deeds in a world where these simple acts are so rare. He would laugh with boyish joy the way you do and adore his hero as perfectly as you do yours. He would stand up for what he believed and suffer those slings and arrows in a heart that burns only to live and let live in a world where that is still only a dream. And he would find a way to step into this world, disguised as someone no one expects these things from.

And so, while I write for the illusion of being with you, you are no illusion at all, but I shall still just call you Kindness.