To whomever

A Story by Nicholas

To Whom may finish my letters,

I like to think that what I write is in some realm of relevance. That my words will land in such a way that they don’t sound like an endless rant of first world bitching. Though I reveal these letters to close friends who are privy to my real name, and they say that it is good, ‘cowardice yet confident’ encouraging me to reveal more of what I really am. I tell myself that my form of self-therapy will not help me, but others as well. But as I read my words over smooth music, coffee, and cigarettes, I find a pain that hurts me to the bone. My ignorance of life experience doesn’t qualify me to talk about differing subjects.

This won’t be my last venture into literature. But this is my last entry into these letters, and I’d like to say that if I were to go out on my own terms, that I might show these to family and friends and they read the first layer of what I write for what it is, and negate underlying meanings. Choosing comfort over and not over analyze what I’m truly trying to say.

I’d like to end as Ernest and Hunter: on my own terms. I would like write and end at the apex of my popularity, and leave them with my actual name. So they might go “That was Nick’s letter to me, and I love him for that.” Leave them with a feeling of love that I can convey to them in a way that makes sense to me, and giving me a filling of completion in an incomplete life.

That I will forever and always will be there for them, and with them; through the selective permanence of paper and writing.

With Loathing and Fear, as well as Anonymously and Regrettably yours,

Anonymous Writer