Well. If it isn't you. The magical, the mysterious, the tantalizing you. I suppose you've come to tell me everything that's wrong with my life, ready to correct every last detail? It's easy to ignore things under your nose and turn your head away from your own probems.

Fate isn't something I believe in, so how can I believe in you? You're never in physical form, you're not something I can reach out and caress, or something I can put in my pocket and take home with me. You're not tall as a building or small as a pebble. I can't compare mountains or boulders to you, just as I can't compare winds or rains to myself. I can't put a book on you and I can't write a book about you. What's the point of believing in you at all?

I have friends.. don't be cheeky, I wasn't done. I have friends who are compulsively attached to you. In love with you. In love with the concept of you. They think they're empty with out you, nothing. Am I nothing if I can't bring myself to be full of you?

People write poems about you. Stories. Epics. Wars are fought over you, battles waged, lives extinguished. Did you want it that way, or did it just happen. If you had never been discovered, would the world have been different? Would I have been different?

You think I know you. You think I'm here with you, you think you're here with me. Always, you say. Always are you here and always will you be here. I haven't felt you here. I haven't been uplifted or overjoyed. You've let me down so many times. You've broken my heart.

Why do I keep fighting with you when I know how real and how true you are?