Original draft: July 17, 2014
I love the idea of a handwritten letter. I think it’s something so personal that’s truly been lost with email and social media. You can tell so much about a person’s mood by their handwriting: cramped and rushed; smooth, slow lines awash with care; loopy script of the daydreamer or the harsh, angry words that tear a page in frustration.
I have a journal that I write in from time to time, holding musings and ideas that I can’t even put on here. Sometimes it’s just a train of thought, sometimes it’s poems, and sometimes I doodle, chasing inspiration across the page like a cat after a mouse (or a fly, if it’s little miss). At times I write letters to people, things I can’t or won’t say out loud, but things I wish I could say if given the chance. There’s one that I wrote a while ago, but am only now
I’ve been angry, and hurt, and depressed, and everything in between. I’ve tried to pretend you don’t exist and I’ve looked for you every single morning, even though I know we won’t run into each other again, not like we used to.
At the end of the day, it was the right time for me to meet you, but it wasn’t the right time for you to meet me. And that’s okay, really. But I’m not going to wait around for you to change your mind or send my things back. I’m just going to move on and if you come back, that’s great. And if you just send my stuff back, that’s great too.
I meant everything I said, whether you did or not. I really, really hope things are better. You deserve that. You deserve everything. But then again, so do I.