Gratitude

I tell everything to these pages, and to you, and they and you both listen. Rare is an explanation, rarer still is any further mention but still they and you remain and listen. The words aren't clear, each typing breath pulls its riddles close and keeps its secrets, but there's always that comfort that these pages keep, that you will read it.

I never really say thank you.

I should.

Fate

I wrote of you, in the beginning, and asked you how it felt to live but I didn't realise, didn't see that you were only an image, only a thought. Only a record in the space of a dream. Now, you live.

I saw you sat there on the shelf and had to look twice. You winked at me then, called my name and whispered to me your secrets. I picked you up, caressing your textured cover and I knew you were mine.

"Do you need a bag, miss?"

"No, I'm fine."

Hello, Other Blog. How are you feeling now that you really exist?