No matter how much I’ve tried to know your constitution, there was nothing, still nothing. I don’t know what identifies you other than my love. I suppose that is where you are superior to me; I can never perceive that which I project onto others. I can never associate myself with such beautiful things. Like a love that formed an entire individual. A story of beauty, of romanticism. Conversations that never happened, of your highest being. A secret prayer chanted in the fields of wheat.

I suppose that makes me superior to you, for there is no memory for you — of you — other than the one I had created. That is where the lines between memory and fantasy begin to blur. What can you remember? Tell me who you are when I no longer exist for you — only then can you be superior to me.

I can never perceive myself as art, nor can I perceive you as such. But to me you were far greater. You were a fantasy, my fantasy, and I portrayed you as anything I had wished. Hence, I made you everything I had wished for, but you were never such. My beauty lies in creating things from nothing, and I had created something out of nothingness. Still, I cannot define what we’ve had, nor what you are. Nonetheless, I still fail to take you out of my fantasy.

Soon all of this will end. You will go back to your nonexistence, for the person that you are only exists for as long as I exist for you. I find it quite sad that this is the mere reality, for I wished you were far greater than I could ever be. That way I would be mistaken to let you go. I forget that this is the lesson I must learn: to leave that which is not great, that which is not even slightly good — the bare minimum, as they say. You’re not quite that, and everything in my being tells me to leave you behind — apart from my description of you. It tells me that you are my creation, and it is always hard for me to let go of something I brought to life, even something as frail as a note on a Post-it. That is how little you have changed my life, like a frail note on a Post-it — still I refused to let you go for how much I had created in you.

And now I say goodbye to you, however, not the one I had created, but the real you that does not exist in my subconscious. I shall not make you a prophet of my art, but you shall remain in everything I yearn for. You stand in the line of many whom I have created from my longing. Perhaps when the time comes and I stop yearning — you and everyone I had created shall find freedom at last, perhaps even live up to my creation at last. For in the story of you — you are far greater than you shall ever be during your life.

I don’t know if it shall ever be enough — writing about you, thinking, masturbating. Will it ever reach a point of saturation? Will I ever live outside my head as intensely as inside? Will my mind become my friend at last and serve me in a way the little boy I’ve created would?