On the Psychology of Writing

Dear you,

Sometimes I try so hard not to think of something to write you, but I often fail to hide anything. I believe you help me into existing. I believe you are there for me when I do not know nor believe you are. So, I write you anyway, knowing from deep within me that the pigeons sending my letters away will reach their very destination soon, and when I least expect them to.

I write you because even when you do not answer me or when you do not know how it really feels, you never judge me; you are somehow meant to make me feel so much better by not responding to my letters at all, as if it's a long-distant relationship with a lover I have no idea about, but who makes life so much bearable in their presence.

I write you because I am a writer, and I have to write to someone who will tell me that what I write is beautiful so I can carry on, so I can maintain my patience with my true self, who suffers along with me while in the process of writing, and who helps me sometimes form the right words to say or the good enough imagery to convey to you, when I least want to convey it. So writing to you keeps my own dream alive, which is now becoming like a lucid dream, I know I have to wake myself up to make the real change I need to in my life slash career.

I write you because even when the pain in my body and hands is unbearable and uncalled  for, I can prove to myself and whoever is there judging me that I can beat something, that I can write although it hurts like hell to, and hurts even more not to.

I write you because you're the only one I can write to, because telling all these stories to anyone else would be just pointless and a waste of time. But you reading my letters makes me believe I can still be, and still write.

I write you because you are. 

Yours faithfully and sincerely,

N.