Who Would I Be?

Dear you, 

The purpose of my writing to you is different every time I sit down and decide that this letter is going to be for you.

Sometimes I want to write you just for the sake of writing, of telling you that much about my life without you feeling, for one second, that I am as full of anxtieties as I am in real life, to prove to you that I can at least write confidently, if I can't speak confidently. 

Sometimes I write because not writing allows so many emotions to bottle up inside; it would almost feel like your heart is beating so fast in an attempt to kick these emotions out in every high rhythm, so that an attack would be an attack on your emotions, not on your heart.

Other times I write because, in writing, I remember the people I love, the places I long for, the times in which I've loved and lost. 

There are also times when I write because words hurt as much as they heal. A pen could have the power to either imprison you or liberate you. Words have a magical sense in them. This is something not many readers understand. But you do. You help me transform feelings into fathomable words. 

You help me be. Because I am a writer, and who would I be if I wasn't writing you? 

Yours faithfully and sincerely,

N.