An Open Letter to Medium

The debt collector was here. He stood outside the door, waiting and waiting. His shadow was engrained beneath him, and remained static, as it stood waiting.

He could not be seen, but his tales were apparent in the shadow cast. He wore a trenchcoat, with his hands deep in his pockets. His height could not be told, as his shadow stretched across the floor. It did not move. It was waiting.

His head tilted occasionally, but it was not out of impatience. He was talking to me; he knew I was listening. He did not need to utter a single word. My reply was the silence, utter silence. It was louder than any scream ever heard, but only he knew of it. Only he knew my fear. I could not see his face, but his grin was clear. He didn’t rustle the hands shoved in his pockets. He did not dance with his legs as the cold breeze was taking over. The trenchoat remained static, regardless of what else was happening. My arms were shaking, but my legs were made of stone. My chest was compressed, but I felt something pouncing in my head. It wants escape, but everything was dark. The end is nearing, yet he remains the same. Waiting.

Then I get a notification. Oh gracious Lord, thee has given me three cents! The joyce, the fear, the steam that’s been building inside was all released without pressure. I rush to the door to open, and there stands the debt collector, with cheeks painted with rainbows and a smile spanning across the globe.

“Lucky day for you, you have a 66.66666% discount!”

I gave him a joyce hug along with two cents. The second being the tip, of course.

Thank you Medium, for building this everlasting relationship. With thy three cents, my life has dramatically improved. ’Tis why I dedicate this to you, just for you. Thank you for all that you have done for me, as I now look for greater ways to compensate you for this greatness offered.

Regards,

Amr Ojjeh