My Letter To You:

I hear you say good night and wonder if such soft words are meant for me, hoping, dreading, and wishing I knew yet afraid to place my light to the torch so that more of the cavernous minds collected upon these pages may be seen than just a few words at a time.

Akin in nature, your letters, published for an audience with eyes and ears of souls stretched across the pages, grasping and molding about the curves and angles of the words as lovers against one another, stretching, flexing, collapsing in upon, together.

You are the wind, bound for mortal understanding, but your wild, nomadic tendencies are trapped as well. You search for hope, any hope that would give you to understand and reason out that once released from that body which holds you down upon this earth, you will remember who you were, what you are, and those you came to love and more importantly loved you. I am afraid my mind holds that it will never be as you hope.

As for the stubbornness which births both courage and stupidity, it is a trait of integrity which, even when misplaced, at least shows the truth of a person by the actions they take. Words are precious, but empty without action. Would you have let me… but… then again, that takes us into a land neither here nor there, which is a place of re-memories and regrets, deadly unhealthy siblings, those.

As for the “truth” you state in some sort of revelationary manner, it is something we both already and have always known, but thank you, just the same.

Repetition-it is a map about your soul, my friend, for there is so many more facets mirrored in your writing repetitiously than those few you name.

Your letter, I am sure, was not to me at all, but then, it does seem in my nature to assume I am of less importance than I am, at least, so you once said. Who knows, certainly not I, and perhaps not you either as you look back upon those things you have spilled out upon the pages of your life.

As for explaining yourself away, I would disagree, not that you dislike it, but something else about it. You wish to be understood, it damn near infuriates you when you’re not, but there is no mystery lost in those eyes when you do so. The man is more than his words.
As for what came of it, I think a great deal, so I suppose what came of it is entirely dependent on what you wished it to accomplish. It is rather subjective outside of that.