Dear Author

April 14th, 2023

Our dear author lives his life leaving his characters only half-finished, shells done with haste and with the only purpose of being able to project oneself. To be, for even one miraculous second, able to exist in the non-existence of his story and forget the weight that he always wears under his eyes.
The other day I went to visit a dear friend of mine. She lived in an antiquated property between the frenetic streets of Buenos Aires; product of the inheritance that her parents left behind. But what greeted me was her remains of an unfinished identity, collapsed on a chair within the dining room. In front of her layed a tea cup filled to the brim, with its contents already lukewarm, as if the liquid itself was mocking her of her incapability of being able to even live.
The truth is that I never spoke to her, nor was she the person to reply to me. Our author –dear author, who vents only in the presence of his characters because his cowardice is of such magnitude that he would never be able to speak face to face with his equals of flesh and bone– had used the likeness of my dear friend to communicate with me this whole time.

He despises me for the sole reason of being one of the only characters he's finished. My ambitions well defined, I do not question my identity for even an instant. He envies my frankness and realistic outlook to the world, my personality which leaves no vacant hole for him to come and take shelter with the delusion that perhaps, perhaps in a brief moment of his life, reigned the possibility that he was the same as me.