To a friend in a far off place.

If I found you again, there are so many things I like to tell you, but somehow I think you don’t want anyone to find you. Like how today all the names I’ve forgotten didn’t bother me, but those few names I remember are old wounds that I feel today because it’s cold, and one name in particular left a scar that hurts whenever someone accidentally bumps into it. I’ve been feeling alone lately. No one seems to know me anymore, maybe I don’t know them, or maybe I just don’t know. Even my muse is quiet, and I’ve been living in silence for weeks. For months I’ve been losing the war against myself even though I’ve tried every trick I know to win out. I stopped drinking so much, I started eating healthier, I started getting more sleep, and I started working out again. But still there are days I can’t look myself in the mirror, even though I look better than I have in awhile. Some people say I’m depressed, and that I should take some things for that, but they don’t know that I’ve been this way for as long as I can remember, except for flashes of childhood. So why would I want to change who I am just so that people could see me smile? I hate my smile anyway. I don’t think I have the kind of face that wears a smile well, and even though I’m not in the best of moods, I think that it’s right for today to be dark and cold because if it were warm and sunny, I don’t think I could have gone outside.
I feel like I should write today, but I can’t hear my muse. I’m thinking of going away, and not telling anyone. Maybe then I could find some peace, sleep through the night, and start to hear my muse again. I remember you telling me about a farm. I wonder if you’re still doing that and where. It’s funny in a sad way to think of how you among all of my friends, were able to understand me best, though we were always going in opposite directions. It’s starting to snow, though it’s almost April, which reminds me of being a child struggling to build a snowman when there really wasn’t enough snow. Back then I wasn’t happy, but I didn’t know sadness yet. I just was, too deep I guess. Something got in, and I could never get it out. I put this letter out there knowing you won’t find it, but if you did, you’d understand.

I can't go into Recycled w/o buying a book.

When nothing else feels right, there is something comforting about books, but only old books with past lives that you can feel speaking to you from the pages making you feel if someone were to open a book while you were there, that your life would bind to the pages, and when they returned the book to the shelf, you’d be home.

Back Again.

To start again is what scares me. As long as I don’t look at it, I can convince myself of its worth and believe that at some far away date, I will finish, and it will be everything I ever expected and more. But to sit down and open up that file and again, and begin the process of beginning again, that makes me take a serious look at what I actually have in my hands, and the next step is even harder: picking words like apples hoping none of them are rotten and will spoil the rest.
The hours I’ve spent working on it are a weight in my stomach making me sick worrying that I’ve wasted them all, those hours. But won’t I have wasted them if I go no further than all the pieces lying on the floor waiting for me to sew them together into something beautiful rather than some disjointed Frankenstein’s monster that I’ve made making a mess of all those perfect parts? Fear of failure is worse than failure because your fear and only your fear is the reason for your failure letting inaction become the deciding factor. Fuck it. I’ve begun again. There is no other option. Progress has been halted for so long because of other things. Now that I have the time, I will put those 2 years behind me, and make something out of it, or fuck it up. Damned if I care. I have no right to complain anymore if I don’t do something.