A note to a stranger

I've seen you wasting yourself for a while now. Your slow, but sure descend into what I can only presume is a self-induced state of madness so inconceivably large that it even looms over those who observe you from a safe distance.

You are a brilliant, brilliant person. I can think of no other person whom I've looked up to more ever since meeting you five years ago. Your words, though annoyingly cryptic at times, are always a joy to read. Even your exceedingly long prose on the shortfalls of mankind and rants on the humdrums of our common lives can interest me more than any book that I might be reading at a given time. I love reading your words, as they've always inspired me in one way or another even when I don't necessarily agree with what you say.

But I'm afraid that you have allowed your disposition to consume you. Your keen eye for all that's tragic (and beautiful) have led you to preclude all the good that neither originates from angst nor sadness. And that saddens me. Because I believe that though self-destructive, you are a kind person. I can only hope that someone, more than a now-stranger like I am, can tell you how little you are doing for yourself.

Sure, the mind can be fed with all that literature and music. But outside of the mind is the body that needs its own share of nourishment. Words and thoughts can't keep hunger away.

So please, eat more.