I hope you do not find this letter unbearably poignant. Sincerely,

The words come slowly, ambling aimlessly between my eyes and my mind and my lips and my eyes. I'm helplessly trying to direct their path into coherent and positive and hopeful phrases to pass the time but the only thing I seem able to write are letters addressed to no one in particular. All the love and sincerity I can possibly muster are spinning into sentences describing memories and emotions I am quite certain do not belong to me. Either way, every rule of grammar, plot and structure have become hazy and manage to evade my even hazier mind; leaving me with a puzzle I struggle to assemble. How does one describe anything? The past is a mess, the future is an enigma, and the present can't even settle down enough to take a breath and form comprehensible musings about the whirlwind of life surrounding us all. I devour book after book in an attempt to glean some satisfaction and perhaps some inspiration but the pages keep turning more and more frantically. And still, every thought begins with 'Dear...' and ends with 'Sincerely'; leaving me wondering who on earth I think I am writing to?! I'm pretending reality is simply a vacation (from what, I don't know) that can be described on the back of a lovely postcard saying 'wish you were here'.

The most absurd cravings rattle my body; every addiction needs fuel. My sunglasses sliding down my nose, the smell of an antique book store, the sting from a scraped knee, car rides lasting longer than one song, gratefully falling into bed trembling with exhaustion, mint candies between my teeth, clear skin, reckless insanity with the tallest woman on earth, the softness of that shirt on my cheek, my wet toms, and to color all over a sleeping face with a black Sharpie. The nocturnal dusk and dawn relay race is a sensational scene to witness each night from my bed but there is a corner of me that just longs to see the stars again. Like the sun, I cannot find a moment's rest and am fated to always be either falling asleep or waking; overlooking moments of deep slumber that could fix the flurry that hasn't settled since I first entered (and just recently exited) the classroom over a decade ago.

Though it's gently slipping away, it is being replaced by something almost as comforting. I haven't quite figured out if I will welcome it with open arms or sadly sit and contemplate the old scents and familiar gestures.
I would like a kitten, yellow jeans, a hug, a ukulele and that shirt before it started smelling too much like me.

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