On Letters.

Simply put.

   November 23, 2013
   10:53 P.M.

     I need to write, I'm so sorry. This has been building up ever since I left university. The need to just write and write and write. Funny thing was, back in college, we used to write all the time. Journal readings, nursing processes, term paper reports, thesis... All handwritten, thirty, forty, sometimes reaching up to eighty pages in one or two nights. Our instructors believed that through writing by hand, we'd learn the pain and remember our lessons better. It really helped. It really did. The calluses on my fingers and the roughness of my palms are testimonies to what became and will become my life. 

     I loved writing letters. I wrote to my mother, I wrote to my friends, I wrote to the parish priest. I talked about everything - groceries, grades, God. I just love hearing the scratch of the pen on paper, the smooth strokes of blackness on white, the letters pouring out and forming words my mouth cannot speak. The last letters I wrote were to Andy and I poured out my entire heart on those. They were the sentient pieces of my love for him, the emotions I cannot hold back but I cannot say either. Only when I'm writing can I be honest to myself and to him.

     I absolutely love him. My devotion for him is more than that - I live for him. He gave me a reason to start breathing in and stop breathing everything out. When he's not here, I'm all right. Nothing's changed. But it starts. The itching, the tugging, the pulling, the looking back. I remember the smallest things - his favorite color, his obsession with whiskey and D.I.D., his stupid games which piss me off - and I start missing him inconsolably. When we broke up, it was tolerable. But the fact that it was made it feel like my bones were breaking one by one.

     It's utter madness how one person half a world away can evoke such unexplainable sensations from me. It's complete, utter madness. I feel like sinking and my feet won't move, but I can breathe. The mud I'm decaying in is my oxygen and he is the spring.