Michael was born in the mind, a figure without a soul. He’s got no eyes that see, but got a heart that feels. He’s got no mouth that talks, but a mind that speaks. Through all the letters sent, be it lifeletters or loveletters, he’s got an insight to share, an advice that heals.
Michael is imaginary, a once man created by fantasy.
Michael is everyone, an enemy, a foe.
A wandering stranger in a train at two.
Michael is the sunlight in a sky so blue.
Michael is me.
Michael is them.
Michael is you.
When I was a kid, I met a friend at the seashore near St. Michael Parish whom I talk to whenever I feel down. And I guess I used to remember that moment now that he’s gone. I named him Michael after St. Michael Parish church. I didn’t see him after I was 12, until I happened to read James Patterson’s “Sunday’s at Tifanny’s” that somehow has the same story of having an imaginary friend. They say all imaginary friends leave us when we reach puberty. Whether be it true or now, all I know is that I missed Michael so much, I’m writing these chained letters for him.