Hey silly. It’s nearly our birthdays. Because of the time difference, we’ll be celebrating them at the same time. I remember telling you about my birthday. I asked what was in the Palace of Fine Arts, and you replied in your usual fashion, “Art.”
Twitter’s a war zone for me, and I’m certain my tweets have been lost, so I thought I’d write you a letter here.
I think that you are awfully hard on yourself. You’re an inherently good person, and I’d stake my life on that. You are brutally truthful, you put your soul into your art, and you have a sick sense of humour. I think that you simply haven’t found your people. You need the right people who you can exchange ideas with, people who hold the same moral standards you do.
And I don’t think that you should let that get you down. Your aversion to specific things is a sign that you know who you are and what you want, even if that hasn’t solidified into an idea yet. You are only young, and life is full and long.
When I think of you, I’m filled with pride to know you.
Writing this, I’m accompanied by the faint tinkle of the Mount Fuji wind-chime my brother got me in Japan. The mountain’s call. There are no mountains in Singapore, and I miss living close to them. I would like to climb a mountain with you. You would make such great company. I would make sandwiches, and ask you to carry the water.
Keep your beautiful head up.
The post warning of cybersecurity is for the resistance not you. Nobody is censoring you.