I’m no poet, lets start there. Additionally, I’m not a writer. Are we clear?
Proactively trying to not be a paper hoarder, I gathered my pile of unread mail in the corner of my home that no one usually notices unless they notice, I sort through the death of trees to find a letter I never sent – it was an apology letter and I care not to explain. Which immediately brought me to a time when I wrote a letter, tore it up, but later taped it back together and stored it in the black box. Immediately I thought about all the times I’d professed my love, written in ink or lead, through digital text, or sent via email. Which confirms I’m not brave enough to say it out but once I’ve wrote it out – it’s now permanent. Well I think I should explore this language of love.
After the last post and my urge to write, I realized that I haven’t sent my love on paper in a long time. So, I decided I’ll write but only to myself. I’ll write to who I was yesterday because I believe every day, we grow a little bit more.
2/18/2019
To you, me, her – Amanda,
It’s okay to feel. That’s the same thing you’ve preached to others, now use your own advice. The space that you’re in sometimes feels weary but that’s normal. It’s life, so live it. You don’t need to explain your choices – it’s your decision and that’s it. Do not apologize for not liking what you do not like – I said what I said. Even if it means firing this damn therapist, once again. The sun will rise and also set – so move accordingly to the time you are given.
Restart tomorrow.
– Love, you.
