Time Travelled — 7 months

A letter from September 11th, 2014

Sep 12, 2014 Apr 01, 2015

Peaceful right?

Dear Future Collin, So It's 9/11 of our Senior year, and it's entirely coincidence that I choose today to write. I have a story to remind you of. The rocky horror picture show. Not that I would hope to call your attention to that awful-ass movie. Christ, or it's demented fan base. Ahh, so you do remember it. Or her. Lillith. The girl without a last name. That is of course unless you've found yourself in her embrace once again in the time I've not yet lived. Remember the simplicity. The night. I hope that I may have many such nights to warm my memory in the time before I expire. And really I know no matter how down you may be at your moment of reading this, that memory will fill you with the warm and fuzzies. And If your exquisite and mature tastes don't play host to this teen's girl-crazy psyche, please disregard this introduction. I may throw in some motivational tidbits just to keep you reading. The school year has just begun, and academically I could still go either way. I realize no matter what timeline ensues this letter, whether I've been met with success or failure, this letter will coast through time indiscriminate of my future nature. I will do my damnedest to put you in a place of contentment. Right now we lack direction. We've heard stories of St. John's college, in Santa fe/ Annapolis. We have daydreams of finding our way back to Ireland. Ohh Ireland.I pray to whatever gods may be that if my memory serves me poorly, let those flashes of paradise endure. Find your way back there. I won't send this too far down the tracks. There's almost no likelihood that I'll even own any of my teen email addresses at any significant age. My eighteenth Birthday. That's where I'll send this. Segway back to motivation. Do not despair. Although We're usually filled with self loathing, we know that somewhere deep down we accept our own nature. I won't put any pressure on future me, probably because of my fear of commitment. How depressing would it be for my future self to receive reminders from the past, of uncompleted obligations, or unexplored hobbies. I won't ask if you've learned an instrument, or grown a six-pack. It's an accomplishment just to know that you've survived this long. I guess at this point in the year you should have some idea of where you're going to college. This may be of great relief to you, or ungodly dismay. If it's the latter, Soldier on my friend. This too shall pass. It may be self-serving. But I'll say this. You are loved. By many people. You may be unable to see it at times. And when you leave this school, you'll still be loved. But 'ere there ever come a time you feel alone. You must love yourself. And in loving yourself, others will come to love you. In your life of seventeen years, you'd only really lived for six. And those six years were a ladder. The bottom most wrung, the Sandpoint Charter School. We looked up at our first social hierarchy, and wanted nothing more than to see the view from the top. So we climbed. And after six years, we're finally above the treeline. I want you to recall this. I need you to know that this is applicable to all things. We like to remind ourselves of all our abandoned passions. Soccer (SSA and Strikers), the boyscouts, latin. We didn't want to invest time into them. And in return from them we reaped a poor harvest. But from these six years. Look at this triumphant field. Tilled by ground-rending stress. Fertilized by the constant bullshit we both give and receive. Planted by the ambitions of a chronic daydreamer. And nourished by the life-giving irrigation of our friend's constant love and support. What will the crop look like? Fucked if I know champ. But hey. Maybe you'll live long enough to make a mean veggie stir-fry from that bitch. PS. There should be a lovely picture attached to this. Do us a favor. On the fateful day this letter resurfaces. Write a new letter. Attach this one to it. Keep the ball rolling. Live Just long enough, and prosper to the point where you're just barely comfortable. Sincerely, you.

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