I want to write you a letter.
At first the feeling dawned upon me like sweet morning dew gracing the beautiful green of trees and plants everywhere. The colours became clearer, the sounds became sharper, and deep within me, I knew I was dead certain that I want to write you a letter.
But I am stuck.
You see, I find myself dangling on the edge of possibilities of what the letter could entail just for you, but still left indecisive as to what would be best.
Do I write to lift your spirit up? To tell you how life, while complex in itself, is simple when left in the hands of your Creator? To motivate, teach, push and assist you through all that might hinder your progress? I recall the day we spoke last, about dreams and goals and I recall you being just as indecisive as I am right now. You remained unsure as to what path to take. Thinking back, maybe I should have nudged you down what I thought would have been better for you. Then again, I wonder… would you have been offended if I did that? I don’t know. Hindsight.
Do I write to describe and display my vulnerability to you? give you the potential to wound me deep with your pen and word? Do I tell you the things that make me weak? the things that make me afraid? Do you remember when we had the discussion we had about the mistake I made when I was relatively young and naive? I had gotten so relaxed in flesh that I didn’t see the pitfall in front of me. My goodness, did I fall.
It’s all hilarious now when I look back, but my goodness was I afraid. Of consequences, of future, of self. Hindsight.
Do I write to address the issues of the heart and how I feel about you? Will you accept it this second time round? Will you forgive me for writing it, as opposed to saying it? Because my oral articulation suffers when incoherence sets in from anxiety pressure. We did this dance once, back when we were younger. Maybe I shouldn’t write it, as that led to you raising me up from my metaphorical knee and softly rejecting my advances. Maybe I’m still naive. Maybe it’s not meant to be. Maybe it was fleeting.
As more possibilities cloud my thought-space, I find myself still considering what would best be put in the letter that you’d read addressed from me.
I’m still unsure as I realise I can write about the dreams I dream about.
I can write about the fantasies I play out in my head, all colourful, diverse and ultimately expensive enough to demand a hollywood budget.
I can write about my memories and show you how much nostalgia I carry within this body of mine.
…maybe I should write to leave a piece of myself with you.
Can I…? Can I write a letter to you to remember me by? A letter to leave a piece of myself with you, should the day come when I am gone and ‘we’ are no more…
The future is always filled with uncertainty, so I can’t promise I’ll always be here, no matter how much I will love to be. Having lost a lot of friendships along the way, I can’t guarantee the same won’t happen to us.
It may even be out of my hands, as everything the Creator wills, happens for a reason.
I think I’m going to write a letter to you.
I just don’t think you will see it.