Writing.

I’ve been writing letters. Letters of my thoughts that come and go. Thoughts that linger. Thoughts that become a little too consuming. I used to never know what to write to people, even though I love getting letters myself. And then a friend sent me a letter a few months ago that was just like we were sitting together at a quiet little coffee shop having a conversation, and it made me realize that I didn’t have to have a point to writing. I could just write my thoughts out and send them. Maybe people will receive it and feel like they can exhale a little deeper. Maybe they will read them and think I’ve gone completely bonkers. Maybe the letter will fall in the cracks of their home and they’ll find it years from now, reread it, and chuckle to themselves about that time they received a letter, out of the blue, that made no sense but they saw someone’s soul a little bit more that day and smile.
I don’t know. But the thing is, I have also stopped caring about how people view me. How perhaps me sharing my soul might be a little too uncomfortable for some to witness. I may never know how my letters made people feel. If they ever even read it. If they rolled their eyes and immediately crumpled it into a ball. They may never acknowledge it. But I will send them nonetheless.

I have stopped knowing how to forge and maintain friendships. Losing Natasha did that. I struggled with it my whole life but now the knowledge has wholly dissipated. In most relationships I have felt like I had to either expand or contract into places and roles I never was meant to fit. And since finding and subsequently losing her, it feels more as if I don’t fit quite right into any friendships. But I’m trying. I’m trying by reaching out with no expectations. Sharing my soul, entirely rawly. I no longer have the capacity to move slowly into building relationships with people. I’m here, a leaky mess, who loves intensely, and is done with trying to speak in half truths as to not scare people away from me.

Also, I love you.