I have been doing a thing lately.
I write letters to people.
I write to friends, ex- old and new.
I write to family, living and dead.
I write to my old bosses, the self-made and legitimate.
I write to characters, then ones I like anyway.
And I write to myself, the self I thought I was and the self I really am.
I write about my current days.
I write about what I wish I had said in moments LONG gone.
I write about what I see or saw in or on them.
I write about how they hurt me and how I have grown.
I write about what I wish could have been and never will be.
I write what’s on my heart.
Yet, these are letters they will never see.
I wondered for awhile why I would write these letters.
Even though inside I found them so vital I still wondered why.
These letters aren’t so that I can reminisce, but to heal.
These letters aren’t for them, but for me.
Whether real or not these ‘people’ have affected my life.
And in many cases I have not processed that affect.
And so it lingers likened to the many socks that don’t quite make the hamper.
And I am left with a deluge of mess in my mind and soul.
Emotions of all kinds just around the floor.
Now that I am getting in the habit of cleaning up and organizing my soul I am finding space to breathe and belong. Not quite happiness in the same way that having a clean room after weeks or months of a messed up room that is suddenly clean isn’t happiness. Just a rush of endorphins that rush in and say ‘ah! Space! I finally have it.’
There is a thing as an adult I have learned: my space is a reflection of my inner world and that can be messy. Reducing the time in between cleanings will give me space to continue well.
And, so, I write letters