Letter

My dearest Anne,

The world rumbles on without a respite of hope. I often think of what drives people, what drives us. Of all the heartbreak and savagery of this world how will we ever be redeemed? Is there a point in trying or are we too far beyond it? I think you know my feelings towards all of this but my mind craves to know your thoughts. To have your mind fill mine until nothing remains but yours thoughts, your feelings, your hopes. I’ve become more reckless as of late and I wonder if it is out of a sense of freedom from responsibility and consequence, or whether it’s just my futile attempt at spiting the worlds of its choking hopelessness. 

Feel myself losing bits of myself and how I wish I could replace it with the brightest parts of you, only for them to remain empty within my very being. 

I’ve kept my promise to you and find time for my fiends around me. In those moments, I forget. I laugh without guilt, I think to the future without dread and I leave having restored some semblance of my old self. In the quiet, my mind yearns for noise and what it gets in return are screaming thoughts of despair and destruction. 

I often find my thoughts turn to you. I wonder where you are, if you have thought of me, if you are happy. And each time I wish I could snap myself out of those thoughts. These thoughts claw at me in a way in which I wished it did not. I fill my thoughts with the greater sufferings of the world, that’s where my suffering should stem. Not the emptiness that you’ve left. Not my memory of you. But despite my efforts my greatest pain is still losing you. The pains of the world only weigh me further down but they are not what caused my fall. 

Despite that, my mind still fills with the horrors that this world is capable. I suppose it is a form of punishment for myself. Like those that whip themselves as a show of their faith, I feel as though I am paying penance for a sin I’m not sure I have committed. 

I still await those moments which I feel your memory wash over me. Before the memory turns to a fire that prickles my skin leaving nothing but a raw wound left to slowly heal once more. I build no walls to stop the memories from flooding me, perhaps I hope that eventually the waves will soothe me, smooth the rough parts of me like pebbles on a beach after years of the ocean’s touch.

I promise that I am trying my best, my dear. I promise that I am trying not to let the wright of the world find it’s way atop my shoulders. I promise that I am trying to find the light in everything as you used to do. And I promise my dear, I will try harder not to look forward to the day that I will join you on the other side. 

Yours truly, forever, 

Thomas