I should preface this by saying that you, “Erika”, do not exist. Millions exist who share your name yet none could truly be called you. You were made by me and you exist now as an audience for writing that should be read by no one but you. Now that I have that out of the way I should tell you why I have brought you to existence. A dear friend of mine once told me, in a conversation that had begun in an onslaught of her tears, that she writes her feelings down on paper when she finds them too heavy to carry. To see it written down in words, she said, was cathartic. The thoughts now have a physical form. A sort of “reality”.

One could call this practice similar to keeping a diary. As a child I had attempted many times to keep a diary, I used to scribble a few lines on any old diary I could get my hands on. This would last for about a day before I would give up. Frankly speaking, this may have simply been a symptom of being young and distracted by any passing breeze but in the interests of this new pursuit of mine, I would like to propose a new theory.

To make art is a two-step process- make the art and then show the art. Can something be called art if no one sees it? The discussion of an art piece is just as much a part of the art as the piece itself. Who would call ‘Starry Night’’ a masterpiece if there was no one there to see it? Think of that tree in the forest, spoken of by philosophers, if no one hears it fall does it make a sound?

At times when I wake up in the morning I feel grief over nothing and sorrow without reason. There is an ache in my heart. Doctors ask for symptoms to make a diagnosis. I want to say that at times I feel an ancient hurt sitting heavy in my chest. It has no purpose or excuse. It does not show itself on my skin. Sometimes I imagine it festering inside me, a being wishing to claw its way out, its nails scraping on my flesh. Is this a symptom?

People love to speak of the tortured artist. From what little I know of Van Gogh I have heard he was in great pain in his life and through that pain he made art. If it were up to me, I would rather he was not in pain, even if the “Starry Night” would never have been made.

How to explain to someone who has never felt the ache what it means to have it? How to look someone in the eye and explain that some days you feel acutely aware of your skin and how easily it could be torn away. There is no being inside me, it does not exist. It is only me.

Please disregard the previous message. Who am I to speak of aches? Who am I to speak of Van Gogh? You should know there is far worse out there. I know I am not special, Erika. I know.

My apologies. I could not write more yesterday. When I brought my thoughts to the page I found I would much rather they were not real and in front of me to see. You could call this cowardice.

When I was 6 I wrote a diary entry on a Wednesday about school, the next day I read what I wrote. I stopped writing after that.

If I needed to describe shame I would call it red.

Red is a color that festers. It is often too loud, too bright and attracts too many eyes.

Sometimes when in a crowded place, I stop to check whether I have something on my face. I am convinced that there must be a spot of rice or a speck of dust or something else embarrassing like that. So I rub my face till it is red and burning. There is nothing there but I am sure if there was everyone would see it.

I always imagined people reading these diary entries. Even if they were only supposed to be for me. After my death, I imagined people leafing through them in a stupor. They would realize then that I was not crazy. That I did things for reasons, even if they were illogical. They would understand then, I dreamed. It would be real. It would matter.

I do not know Van Gogh, I have only seen his paintings and read some of his letters. I do not know if he wished for his paintings to be seen, I do not know if he would be happy to see his works be called masterpieces. Why he made his works I do not know but I do know that I find it all beautiful.

Someday I want to write something and have someone else find it beautiful.

I am still a coward. A part of me still hopes to make a masterpiece but I know better than that. I have always known better than that.