Letter to a person who's covered in an old dusty sheet
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(recorded 9/16/07 @ 9:27:09 PM)
Do you remember what it used to be like? Our lives? Our life? I do. Sometimes I forget though.
It's Sunday night and I'm lonely. It's the kind of lonely where your outsides are calm and your insides feel electric, like the current running through the wires above our heads that my mother despised so much. It's the kind of lonely where I actually want to feel lonely just because it means I'm feeling something.
Do you remember what it was like to be a freshman in college and sit in our dorm rooms typing out entries to OIO? Back and forth to each other, half a mile apart, angry and hurting and the only way we could figure out how to fix it was to write cryptic messages into a seemingly harmless grey box...
Things have changed and yet here I am again, typing into this seemingly harmless grey box.
I spent years of my life wishing and hoping I could be more like you, mean more to you. Didn't get me very far. I don't know if that's how it happens for everyone. Is that what falling in love feels like for everyone's first time? How come I sometimes still feel the wounds as if they're fresh?
Closure? Is that what I'm lacking? I don't have the answer but sometimes you just need to dwell on the question.
Most days I push you to the cobwebbed expanses of memory. Seeing photos of you brings a stampede of wild emotions. I mean it, my breath freezes in my chest, I feel as if I've fallen flat on my back and had the wind knocked out of me.
But you're a part of my history. You've helped to shape who I am today. For better or for worse.
I only have one question for you. Have you got any idea how much you meant to me?
It is what it is.
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