I’ve still never seen my letter. I will one day. I will get a hold of it. I’m terrified what I will think of myself when I find it. So much has come between us. Will I be challenged by that memory? The memory of writing a letter versus the horrifying contrast its contents conceal?
I have said it before, I tried to convince myself that there was something here. Something more than the errant waste that lies in my now shriveling memory cells. Writing that letter, I remember how much I was trying to convince myself that this was going to work out and that this was going to be OK. I wrote about how I dreamed of coming back home to you, and that it would all be grand.I knew in my heart of hearts that it was a pile of romantic gibberish. I knew that I shouldn’t be hoping for this but knowing this. In fact, if it really had been right, I knew that I wouldn’t be writing the letter in the first place. There would be no need to convince myself that we would be there on the other end.
The girl of my dreams would have been beside me, writing her own letter. She’d be talking about how this experience wasn’t going to define her life, but refine it. To make it more than it was. You wrote me something around the time reminding me that you would be there when I got back, That you’d be there once I had found myself. That you’d be waiting. That you had already started the calendar. While I was thinking about all the things I would do, the people I would meet and the friends I would make, simply because I was getting on that plane off to the unknown. What you were thinking nothing of what would happen while I was gone, of the opportunities in store, just about that moment that I came back.
Which is real? The formulated sap I wrote all that time ago? Or these memories, cracked and bent, twisted and entwined; glued back together through years of resentment, hope, anguish, love and guilt?
Neither is probably the truest of statements, yet truth right now is not quite something I am willing to confront.