A letter from Feb 1st, 2022

I Hope You See This and Smile, I got your last letter. The one you sent in June of '14 to be delivered in June of '19. I read it twice. Once the day it was meant to be delivered and then, again today. If I weren't so dehydrated I probably would've cried. It's a strange feeling looking back at the person you were and having all the pain come rushing back to the surface again. Only it doesn't hurt this time around. It's a relief, a funny feeling, a good feeling. To know that all of yesteryears problems are a faint blemish in what today's become. Oh how you wondered where you'd be, the things you would've seen, if the heartbreak would last. And I am here to tell you that it got better. Mostly. It's 11:07am. It's a Tuesday. It's gloomy but still bright out, and you still have the blinds closed. The plants are doing okay, although they don't appreciate the cold. You're sitting on the bed. The floor's a bit of a mess, a plate, a bowl, your pink water canteen. Some book strewn across the floor, a tied bag of garbage. A yellow floral mask sits on top of a green ottoman. Blue mug in the window ledge, a bottle of Moroccan oil, hot sauce too. The bed is messy, white sheets, green stripped comforter a pink pillow and a pile of clothes (washed), at the foot of the bed. Himalayan salt lamp on the closet floor, you donated and got rid of several bags of clothes, but there's still always so much more. You got the tiny apartment, although it's a bit colder some days than you would've liked. You graduated college, even though it took longer than you expected it would. You got a job, and then another one and then another, even though they weren't what you planned. You travelled, even though it wasn't as grand as you would've wanted. You published a book, even though it was smaller than you hoped for your first publishing. You quit work without feeling anxious. You let life move forward without having a plan for a bit. You let go. You let go. You finally let go. You wished and wanted, and made the wanting become a reality to make space for more. More wishing and wanting. What can I want this time around? You want to find security, you want to find love (You still think about him a couple times a year, the summer seasons are a bit harder than the rest of the year, but he's mostly a distant memory, not good or bad), you want to travel again, travel some more. If I want to be real dreamy and romantic, I will want for me to be reading this in my van. Tell me you've bought the van. Painted her up real nice and saw America. From coast to coast. Tell me you made it to up to Oregon. Tell me it was everything we've been wanting and more. But I think the older I get the less I am wanting and the more I am enjoying what I've got and who I am. I hope this is good? I hope this is not some faint sadness creeping up on me and diminishing that bright light of wanting. You've always wanted, I'm not sure if that's who I am, or if the wants and the wanting were just empty parts of me I replaced with something... So tell me, how's 31 looking on you? You believed it'd bring a sense of calmness and peace. Is it true? Oh, I hope you see this and cry. I hope it brings you back to this day of feeling small and settled and a little stuck and unambitious and unmoving and I hope you see this and smile because you've moved, even if only just a bit. Even just a little. I think I'll clean my room, have something warm to drink. Put on our favorite movie and melt away for a bit. You still need to disappear from time to time. Oh, and open the blinds. Let the sun in for a change. All the best and all my love, From a past version of you that may still linger