years ago, i wrote a message to a friend. actually, i wrote it to three friends. i didn’t want to name any of them, because my hope was that they’d be able to figure it out themselves (if they ever decided to read it.) instead, i addressed it, “dear you.”
that letter soon turned into more. more people, more stories, more pleas for understanding and love, and maybe for attention at times. i’ve never found myself particularly skilled at openness - at least, not in the ways that i wanted to be. it’s easy to be vulnerable when speaking to someone not in the room. over time, “dear you” was a way to refer to, well, anyone - friends, family, God, myself, enemies - the list goes on.
i stopped writing a while ago. mostly, because i’ve been happy. it’s a weird thing to think about, but i think that writing was always a method of catharsis. a way of letting go, fighting demons, or just plain wallowing. when life started going my way, i’d slow down, and when the inevitable crash and burn happened, it was back to the ink for me. and here’s the thing - these last few years have been wonderful. life is incredible. but a weird side effect of that was that i think i forgot how to write.
and so, here we are, the same as before and yet so different. it almost feels like dusting off a car you haven’t driven in a long time - familiar, yet with a new learning curve. you know the basics - go, stop, turn, accelerate - but you forgot the quirks, like the fact that you get stuck between gears 2 and 3, or which side the gas tank is on.
i’m not sure what i’m supposed to write anymore, but i know that i’m supposed to. so, i’m going to learn this again, and get back to you in a bit.
dear you,
it’s been far too long, and not nearly long enough.
be right back.