Hey you! (you know who you are),
I am writing you this letter for many reasons, one of them being that I am a hopeless romantic and sad sappy sucker and sending and receiving mail is probably one of my favorite things to do in the entire planet. I am also choosing snail mail as a means of communication because time is what I need on this occasion. So without further to do, here goes nothing:
You must hold the record for most letters written (by yours truly), but never sent, than any other person I know. Not sure what that means, but there you have it. You also have managed to infiltrate the teeny tiny crevices of my temporal lobe so deeply, you are typically the first name and face that comes to mind when I awake and before I fall sleep. You have provided so much writing material I stopped counting how many poems, short stories, novellas, prose I have written about you the last few months. I have laid awake at night and pondered why you’ve had such a lasting effect on my memory and my being although you came in and out of my life as quickly and unexpectedly as you arrived. No concrete answers yet, but I do have a few speculations. Care to know?
1. Because I met you early in my sobriety, at a very, very vulnerable state, I mean I was hanging on to life by a thread and you made me feel hopeful and safe and you just got it. You understood what it was like to be in the sort of pain that comes with years of abusing drugs and alcohol.
2. Because I’m sober as fuck and I ain’t got no dope or alcohol pumping through my veins, I have way too much time to obsess over missed opportunities (aka you).
3. Because it is easier to worry and care about someone other than myself.
4. Because I fell in love with you.
5. I met you at a time in my life that never really happened, and all of this is a dream and we’re both a fraction of some little boy’s imagination in an alternate universe… We stole our faces from people we saw in passing.
My favorite speculation is five; the nihilist in me is still very alive and well. Speculations 1, 2, and 3 are all very reasonable and probably accurate but they are just not as fun. We won’t talk about 4 because it scares the fuck out of me and it probably scares you more.
Thank you for leaving an 18sec message on my machine, you provided more writing material. You see, I have this thing were I can’t ever really hate anyone who inspires me to create any kind of art even if I have to suffer and cry night after night for it/them/you. I’m curious to hear about what you’ve been doing now that days are warmer and the nights are longer. Since I am a low key narcissist, here’s what I’ve been up to:
1. CREATING-mostly writing (I write so much I can’t keep up, it’s insane), taking photos here and there. Sometimes I even plant seeds and hope that they will grow.
2. Running- I am training for a half marathon (that’s 13.5 miles my dude) that will take place August 13th, that’s the day after my 24th birthday, it feels symbolic or some shit.
3. Going on extremely long walks for someone with nothing to think about.
4. Staying sober. This is the least exciting part of my life, and the most significant. I am doing it because I am terrified of what will happen if I take a drink, and because I told myself I’d do it for a year. When people ask what sobriety is like, my answer always is: OH SO INCREDIBLY BORING.
5. Riding out manic depressive episodes. Mental health issues and chemical imbalances are a son of bitch, that’s all I got to say about that.
6. Getting tattoos- I love self-inflicted pain (surprise surprise!), especially the kind that end with beautiful works of art.
7. Listening to Race by Alex G on repeat, Bright Eyes and Modest Mouse too. Nothing new here move along.
I thought I would finally get to talk to you in person, maybe. I told myself not to invest myself in that possibility too much, but because I’m all or nothing, these kinds of things are impossible for someone like me. You didn’t answer, and you didn’t reply to my messages. I am not surprised, but I can’t help what I feel. There I go again, breaking my own heart, crying over broken promises that don’t fucking exist. With that I’m out.
Oh and guess what???
You won’t stop hurting yourself until you’re done hurting yourself because it hurts way too much. I like hurting myself way too much. Do you?
amor like fuck,