relativity.

to write letters to you.
in the middle of my overruling lambda.
to write to you letters of descriptions, pretentiously poetic thoughts of how I may understand the world better, when I dont.
to, and on an eastern, warm, embalming sunset, write sheets and sheets of letters to you.
purge out the essence of undefined, overlapped, scattered melancholy. art taking the best of me, the dullness of life, the very loneliness emerging.
"I wish for nothing more than my teen years back"
I would go on.
"when you and I painted our floors with textbooks, and novels and attempts at grasping all things much larger, when you would say things so disgustingly predictable, so adorably awe striking as " men of Einstein's grand stature only are so grand for their realization of how small they are' you'd say it with a heavy thickens in your voice that is a result of nothing but utter confidence "these imbeciles we study with, the ones who look at us like we have committed the most haines of crimes, the ones bursting out barabaric, medieval existence, in the way they assume full rights to gush, as if, in our items of clothing, and ways of speaking, we have murdered righteous existence" and you and I could both detect, a hugh of detestable, weak, weak anger filling the rather large space between the particles of air.
you'd breath in to compose your self, to re-paint the carless face you sport daily.
"these people, assume grandness and importance, and for that, they will forever remain parasites."
I do truly wish, I could be an angry, spiteful, hopeful teenager, who assumed minorities are small enough not to minorities him.
I am truly, a minority within the minority of the minority.
I am truly, a spec against a wall that is so vast it could overshadow the very baffling effect of this sunset.
and when I write to you, these letters, sipping my milk and tea, and biting at m biscuits, enjoying the very little luxuries a dull, unacknowledged life presents, knowing, that you and I are in our 30s now, and possibilities decay, and your finger is wrapped with end, and you'r household flaming with children.
that I am no Einstein in my admission of how small I am, rather, am only bitterly aware, of a metaphorical size in relativity.