To,
L of February 28, 2018, 6:13 pm
I am L of February 28 2018, 2:21 pm. As I am writing (typing) these words, I am thinking of how I would be able to tell you explicitly all the things and emotions that I cannot take for now. When you read this, you're going to be almost 4 hours older than me and by then I'm expecting that you would be able to contain all these negative emotions that your younger version can't.
First, do you remember what our younger version wrote last week? That poem tells so much about what I am going to tell you. And it tells so much about me. I hope that you are not the same as your younger versions by the time you read this. Because that is the sole purpose of writing this, so that you can understand, or probably, change us.
"I picked up all of my broken pieces and sighed
I was just waiting to slide
Off to the infinite void
If truth- there- was hold.
Should there be something out of nothing?
Should there be nothing out of something?
Should there be an infinity in something that does not have anything?
Should there be nothing in an infinity that has something?
Because I am.
I do seem
To belong to an infinite void.
I am.
I do seem
To be the infinite void.
An empty infinity.
An infinite empty vessel.
I picked up all of my broken pieces and cried
I was just waiting to die.
Like an airplane in a period of turbulence
I always am in a state
Of instability.
Always am
In a state of irregularity.
My body seems fine from afar-
I may seem perfectly subtle
From a distance-
But everything in me
Is shaking.
Rattling.
Crying,
For help.
I picked up all of my broken pieces and stared
Saw my own wounded vessel.
You will see me too,
But I would be walking perfectly.
Because you've seen me
Way back
When all of my wounds were still visible.
Because you've seen me
Way back
And told me I should cover them all.
No.
You didn't go telling me to cure them all,
You didn't bother telling me that you'll mend for the throe.
I picked up all of my broken pieces and smiled
I was just waiting to fly.
Someday, I'll learn how to fly
Somehow."
As the older me, do you think writing this one and letting people read it is a bad thing? Because, to tell you honestly, I have written more things about me after writing the poem. Bad things. Bad vibes. Bad emotions. I have let people see me as an open book, wrote how devastated of a person I am. Wrote how trash I am. Wrote how stupid I am. Wrote how wrong I am. Wrote how broken I am. I have written short parts of our story and let them read it. Only I did not foresee that my words are going to be translated into so many levels. That our story is going to be translated into so many different stories that even I would not be able to deduce to the original one. Yes, I want to tell you this so that you would also be wary of writing about yourself because you do not know how it is going to be perceived by people and be translated into so many versions that even you or I will never be able to recognize. Because people have become the best translators that they can probably deduce your ten sentences into a novel, translated into 155 stories. And I don't want you to experience it.
Going back to my story, I want you to also know that people told me to stop writing down those things. I was told that I should not share those negative emotions. Will you please tell me, as you're the older one, that they are not telling me to stop? Or will you please tell me that they are wrong? Because it enrages my whole personality. Are they telling me to play-pretend? Like the one in the poem:
"Because you've seen me
Way back
When all of my wounds were still visible.
Because you've seen me
Way back
And told me I should cover them all.
No.
You didn't go telling me to cure them all,
You didn't bother telling me that you'll mend for the throe."
Do older people think the same way they do? You know, because people saw me today, as they have seen me yesterday, and the other day. And they think I'm someone whose wounds are so visible that it stings their eyes. They think I am supposed to cover up my wounded parts. That I'm expected to walk normally and smile perfectly like everything is fine. Is that the rule of this world?
For now, I can't say that I'm fine or that I would be able to stop myself from crying anytime soon. But I hope that by the time you are reading this, you would have all of the answers to my questions. If not, I hope that you have stopped the tears from running. Or the rage from dripping. I hope that you would learn how to pick up all of my broken pieces, smile, and fly, somehow.
As the older me, I want you to be wary also about the things that you'd write, or be wary of people. If you are going to write about this, please send it to me, only me. I am writing this to you just in case another person tells me to stop telling them what I feel. I am writing this to you, only you.
Signing off,
L from February 28 2018, 3:12 pm.