The Lost Letter

Dear Somebody,

I am a nobody. I am so big a nobody that, even now, I think that I am somebody. I have not seen how life is, whether it comes in six packs or not. But I have seen enough of it to rule out the possibility of anyone being sane in it. Okay, I know you would raise a few eyebrows on hearing 'sanity' being mentioned. But I was alluding to the universally accepted credentials it projects. Moreover, I have recently discovered that all that seems is not true. All that seems is just all it seems to be. Nothing more. Usually, sire, I have the habit of envying life-forms who lead a life much rosier than mine. But then, on inquiry, I found out the above mentioned 'all that seems is not all that is' thing.
I am sending this to you to let you know that, at the moment, I am so emotionally and physically drained that I am not able to put in any more an effort to pen out words that look extremely beautiful but make not much of an ounce of sense. Moreover, its this thing, you know, this thing that lives inside me and tells me what to do, what to think, what to write and so on, that is making me do this work. The most wonderful thing about this thing is that it makes you wonder whether the punctuation marks are right even when the whole world seems to be topsy-turvy.

I don't know much about you other than that you have a little bit of curiosity about me. You reading this testifies that much. But whoever you are, I hope you are cheerful. Probably you could lend a bit of it to me. I am desperately in need of happiness. Amidst the rolling days and nights, I wondered if I would ever meet some one like you. Then, when you didn't apparate, I traversed feminine worlds and found the odds slightly lesser. So then, I decided that you are here, amongst all this airs and cars.

But, mate, I had made a big mistake in passing through the female corridors, for some memories remain like those sands that fail to get lashed back into the oceans. And most mornings I wake onto half-finished, snobbish dreams that I finish later while brushing my teeth. Most evenings are spent in morose, half-sleepy guilt that arises from obtaining rather odd red figures on odd white sheets of paper. Nights ? aah! they go this way.

I hope you realize that I wasn't extremely personal to you. Otherwise you would have seen that I am far more emotional than what I intended myself to be. Its with this place you know, rather, its with this thing called me. Excuse it. Some one in Australia called it a 'complex' of some sort. Anyway, I have to ask you only one thing before going off to another round of sleeps. Do you exist ?
I hope I do receive an answer to it, if you do, that is.

Yours timidly,
Entity.