Letter to maybe readers and maybe friends
I haven’t written anything in ages, so I’m going to start again. I must admit, I stole the idea from my random blog surfing adventures, but I’ve adapted it so I hope the original writers don’t sue me for a copyright infringement or something. It’s a little angsty, and you might find it rather puzzling and painful to read.
Who am I kidding.
You’re going to think I’m so fucked up.
A maybe writer
Letter to the inevitability of time
Can’t sleep so I’m writing to you. Probably a result of late nights induced by dickheads that have nothing better to do with their time.
Oops, that sounded a little too bitter… a little too much like the old me.
I tried to clean my room today because it’s been a pigsty for about two weeks now, but going through my stuff always brings back too many memories and I end up sitting down and thinking about it until I go insane. All the stuff that I brought here seemingly means something to me.
So why did I bring all the things that remind me of moments I want to let go? Why did I carry them all the way over here when I could have left them in a pile of memories back at home…?
My Audrey poster fell down today, so I had to notice her. Usually she just hangs there, an enigma traced onto paper, staring down at the mess I call home. But today I was reminded of how beautiful she was, and I had to restick the corner that was hanging off so I could look into those eyes that keep following me around wherever I go. She told me that to have beautiful eyes you must seek the best in everyone, but how can I do that when I’m unable to see the best in myself?
I don’t know what to say to you. I just want someone to tell this to:
I’m sitting here, trying to convince myself that I’m happy, that I’m content with my life, that I’m not lonely at all.
And I can hear the clock ticking, second by second, measuring my ineptness and the life that I’m wasting away. With each tick the scale goes up; I’m more useless, and my life becomes increasingly futile.
Until tomorrow morning.
A dimming light
Letter to all my lost property
Do you remember when you were young and I held you and hugged you and took you everywhere you chose to go? Do you remember how we spent countless hours watching the stars and drawing pictures with crayons and learning about the creation of life?
Maybe you’ve forgotten. It’s been so long now since we were together.
I know what you’re doing out there. You’re like the outsiders, the terrorists, the gangs that band together to escape from prison. You’re recruiting. You’re gathering up anyone that’s unsatisfied with the position they’re in, offering them a chance at freedom, knowing that they’ll suffer more than they already do. And they’ll join you, because that’s what unsatisfied beings do: continually look for something more.
I want what’s best for you, I really do, but you just won’t believe me when I tell you that the best thing is to come back to me. I know you can find a way, but you’re too stubborn and hold too many grudges. You can’t seem to remember the good parts; only the bad parts. I’ve heard that it’s the opposite when something dies.
I’m not going to try and convince you to come back because I’m too proud, so I guess we’re at a stalemate here. And those that will leave me to join you- I won’t ask them to stop. I can live without you. I can live without you all.
But you… you can’t live without me. Or so I thought.
Letter to the mystery of undying love
Someone asked me how I felt about you today, and I’ve been thinking about it all this time. So I’ve decided to write to you to tell you my thoughts, and maybe you can write back to tell me yours.
The weather won’t touch me in here anymore because I built a mound of bricks with a roof and no windows. So people tell me that you’re outside and ask me to come out to meet you. And I want to, I really do. I want to believe that you exist, and I want to see you in action and I want to be able to feel beyond these empty walls. They scream at me from the outside because that’s the only way I can hear them, and in all our conversations all that interests me is you.
They tell me all these wonderful things and I want to know more.
So please write back to me and tell me how you feel.
The sustainers of empty conversations
PLEASE RETURN TO SENDER
Letter to the questions in life
Who am I writing to?
When will they answer my letters?
And why does this guy want me to write to all these people?
Sorry, I’ve been informed that the questions I’m asking are abnormal. Apparently they should be along the lines of “What is the meaning of life?”
But I don’t care about the meaning of life.
Why is that?
The wrong type of quizzical
Letter to girl in room 241
You probably don’t remember me, but that’s mostly my fault.
I keep giving you pills after we meet so you can sleep peacefully, but you never do, so I just give you more. I think you may need stronger medication, but the others don’t approve.
I also think that you think too much, which probably led to your recent suicide mission. All you need to know is that it’s okay, and I’m here to help.
Doctor Lamington (Your therapist)