You're right, life is so much more compelling and exciting when you choose to live it through art. There are stories in every single one of my photos, but I hope to never be the one telling them. Hidden meanings in my pieces of writing could fill emptied canyons with symbolism in which we could swim. When I can make something else look good and communicate well, it makes me feel as though I myself look better and am in turn a better, more honest person. Perhaps you didn't know that any of this was possible before meeting me, and you didn't consider the possibilities of living life in a system that isn't black and white nor is it color. I'm happy to bring you there, be we enemies in writing, lovers in old fashioned photography, best friends in studio portraits, or practical strangers t-shirt screens. Should we have no relationship at all in person and speak only to each other through predetermined words and messages that were calculated hours before, I can't say that I wouldn't miss kissing you in my car, but I'd welcome a bond more interesting than any I'd ever known. Should we continue holding pinkies, however, I commend the bravery you have should you decide to meet me on this battlefield of words when I turn my sights to another chase, and another, and another. Know that perhaps the most brutal of fighting words will be the ones absent completely of the thought of you. I welcome your rebuttal to these back-stabbing battle calls. Don't continue doing this to yourself if you think it won't ever be necessary.
Last night you asked me what you had given me, and I began to reply with a slue of admirable qualities that you possessed and that I appreciated. You interrupted me and repeated the question: What had you given me? To be honest, the first word that came to mind was Hope, but I couldn't bring myself to say it because I knew it wasn't what I felt. I could have lied and told you that you had given me hope that I could change into someone who could want what was best for her without so much conflict, but I knew from the start that you couldn't, nor did I want you to. I could have lied to you and told you that you gave me hope that by going to war with me, you somehow possessed the ability to make me love you as much as you loved me, but I knew again that such a thing was impossible if I just didn't feel it there from the beginning. I couldn't tell you right there and then what you had given me, because I didn't know. Aside from the obvious entertainment and enjoyment of being around someone as interesting and as intelligent as you, and aside from the validation and gratification of being admired by someone, deep down I somehow know that you haven't given me as much as I've given you, albeit unintentionally, throughout this whole experience. But you have, my friend, helped me overcome a barrier that has been destroying me inside and out for the last few years of my life. You have certainly, as much and if not more than anyone, helped me to write again. You've not only proved yourself as an interesting subject in all your complexities, but you've provided me with material; done things people would not have done to inspire me and challenged me to form a response. You've pushed me to use words as more than just words, but as weapons, as tools, as fire-starters and fireworks. You've challenged me to consider myself the owner of these pieces of art and therefore the able-body to decide where I can go with them and where I'd like them to take me. You've given me a magnificent friendship that no normal person could hope to match. You've given me constant confusion and in turn an endless contemplation of things I could potentially become bewildered by. Ethan James O'Hara, you've helped me form a world of words in which we are living together now, pinkies linked, and that, more than anything, is something I am sure that nobody has ever given me before.