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Good Evening from Your Neighbor

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I love photography.

It presents such excellent opportunities.

Everything considered, It’s rather entertaining. First I had such appreciation for language, if you could call it that at the time. Then came the paintings; rudimentary, yes. But effective nonetheless. And then there was the written word. How long was it that I subsided on the timelessness of rough scratchings on brittle parchment? Sure, a painting has something of an effect, and little is lost to translation, but even so the effect struck me as so much more distinct, so much more of a beacon. If I was to measure my detection of a viewer from a mile away, then I would be able to detect a reader from a thousand miles away! Now though, I must admit, with this great abundance of technology and innovation, spread to every inch of the globe, the mediums are on a much more balanced footing.

First I feel I should address Photography and Videos. Oh how I love the avid art student. Their precious treasure clicking away like a card between the spokes of a bicycle. “Oh that tree is just fantastic!”, “Those children are so adorable!”, “This park is just so lonely!” It’s like some unwritten queue, letting me know that now is when I should step into frame, or I should prepare to let my mask flicker, just in time with the shutter click of their camera. I don’t even need to linger about to wait for them to view the capture. I can feel it.

This brings me to Literature. Sure, a snapshot is a tasty snack, but very little compares to a reader whose mind spends minutes to hours simmering about me. Sometimes they’re even compelled to write their own recipe for me, a garnish to their flavor if ever there was one. I do enjoy the depictions though, although they all seem to be unable to stick to the basics, always compelled to add a few extra arms, or tentacles. Sure I was compelled to don a hat from time to time, but if only to blend in with the times. A gentleman must always stay fashionable. I must say, I above all enjoy the descriptions of my face. It’s incredible how you can find so many ways to describe so little.

Now I find myself dwelling on the ages. It’s peculiar. I care so much for you while you are young, only to crave you when you first begin to discover the world. I find it not unlike a farmer tending his crops. And should you age too far, I simply no longer have any interest, although there have been the occasional exception; If only for survival.

Returning to the stories I find it’s interesting how they try to depict my origin. I came across one such story that described my creation as a haphazard experiment gone wrong. Creative, until you consider how far back my stories span. There was another, who described a rather entertaining pursuit which ended in ritual sacrifice that was attributed to my “mo”. I must admit, it was one of the few times I actually stepped in to stop the story. Although while I managed to resolve the one responsible. A writer escaped my noticed until after the story was propagated. And while I’ve sense dealt with the source, it would seem their work has outlived them. And now I have to deal with the attribute of gory destruction to my sustenance, even though I have such tidy manners. After all, what do you expect from anyone else in a suit?

And then there are “the accomplices” - ghoulish creatures you might find under your bed, or creeping from your closet. At times I’m almost compelled to search out each and every writer I taste to ensure no such association is made. Fortunately my endeavors have stemmed the occurrences. Unfortunately I can only be in so many places at once. Even monsters can’t be everywhere. Although I assure you, the second you try to believe that I’m not there, I am all the more enticed to make you an exception.

It appears that all the time I have for now. This one is a light sleeper and I must put them back to bed. Don’t bother trying to contact them, they only saw me in one of their birthday photos when they were six, hardly worth a sample, not to mention, they can be hardly expected to remember what they did in their sleep. After all, you don’t.

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