Donna Ferrato, imagined

The lovers become mothers and fathers. A few people want my flirts, but most hope for some wisdom. When did I become wise, when I always saw myself as wild? When did the wolf turn fox? Every friend was once a stranger, and many friends I wish now had stayed that way; they were more mysterious, more dangerous, more of a thrill. And now some of them depend on my flights of fancy to remind themselves of their own escapes and scrapes; my crashes excite their scars. And I see you this way, as the flier who risks herself in unknown skies. You are still the lover to me, and I see you in flames or on ice and feel comfort that you will either help me find my way or be there on the path when I find it myself. I look for you here and try to sense your fights and flights; are you ruffled by wind or rattled by calm? You are bound here by us, the people you love, because we all need to be reminded that we cannot be killed by the pains of our imaginations, and only dreamers can deliver this message: do as you want, desire, act boldly even if your actions are done wrongly, and the dreamer leads these lessons with a million tiny deaths of her own. You are not only your self, Donna, but part of all our imaginations; yes, it's insane to throw away an evening on facebook, but who objects to your loss but you? We're happy to have you here, an example we could all imitate, and we'll wait patiently while you go out and make some thrill. But don't dry our addictions to you because we help you waste your time! The superfabulous Teddy Roosevelt said if you kicked the ass of every person who you thought was responsible for wasting your time on facebook, you wouldn't be able to sit down for a week.

-- from a correspondence with Donna Ferrato