Hope For The Hopeless, Love For The Loveless, Breath For The Breathless

Dear K,

I think there's a good chance that we'll keep writing to each other our entire lives. I'm sure there will be gaps. I'm sure there will be times when both of us are too preoccupied with our own lives to write each other. I know though that I turn to this place, to this bridge that we have created between the past and the present and between each other's pasts and the present, I turn to this bridge for comfort and succor against the abyss. I find myself staring into the emptiness of space and time more and more lately. I'm on a journey into the deep, and I'm not worried one little bit. I'm gonna get stronger. I'm going to get smarter. I'm going to come out breathing fire and flame like oxygen. I'm going to come out the other side with a bright torch and something to say.

Actually the stupid thing is the more I stare into the depths, the more I stare into the swirling abyss. The more I stare up at the sky and see the expanse, the unknown infinity of stars, the depth of time, the more I think about these things the quieter I get. I'm finding the things I want to say have already been said, and are already being said, by the stars themselves, by the rocks and mountains and trees, and the waving wind. The world is there to be read, and our insignificance is a fact.

I'm sure this sounds bleak, and it is, but it's also the firmest rock I can find in a universe of quicksand. Nothing is permanent. Entropy is coming for all of us, and thank god for that. Can you imagine something staying the same? Something being constant? How boring. How dull. How cruel. That would be anathema to life. That would be death. Nothing can be alive and unchanging, and so we require death to come for us. Require to come and lay us down. To deposit us into the sea of time, and let us float away into the past.

These letters are breadcrumbs. They're like buoys on a trawling net. Imagine your soul is a school of fish swimming through the ocean of time. These letters are trying to capture little pieces of it. To hold them up. These too will pass though. The ocean of time will have us all in her endless embrace.

I know none of that made sense, or anyway it didn't make any sense as to why I would write it here. I'm coming out of a writing paralysis though, so any words on the page are a victory and I don't care if they are jumbled and loose, I'm just glad they are there.

Like old friends. Like letters from old friends. I'm just glad they are there. Wherever they are, however they are, I'm glad you're here. On the page with me,

K