Dear me,
You’re going to turn 19 this year. I still remember the little me memories, they feel like they belong to someone not me. They suddenly come before my eyes when I’m trying to have some nothingness time. Like you standing in front of the mirror, patting lots of baby powder of your little sister over your face to become white. Funny isn’t it? You roaming around the streets, hiding candies from mum, plotting with your older sister and breaking stuff accidentally. Remember how you scared and annoyed the pet parrot, so that one day you made faces at him and he stared at you angrily and flew away? It was then that you realised you missed it.
You went on building dreams upon dreams, slowly turning from a chatter box to a serious, silent thing who kept to herself. How did you change so? What made you change like this? Maybe just life itself. Maybe pessimism. Maybe finding no answers. Maybe seeing all the dreams you made slowly dying around you. Or maybe just life itself.
That was when you turned to books. Suddenly they became something you needed; they made you escape this world, this life. They kept you sane. You stayed awake till 4 at nights just to read. Slowly you started writing. I still think I write rubbish poems but I write anyway. I looked back to the 13 year old poems; they all were about darkness and being lost, trapped and death.
Even now, it feels as if there are walls all around me and I want to escape. But how? There is no door, no route, nothing at all. At this point, I am standing with no aims, no idea what I want to do and just tired of everything. Does it get any better later on? Do you still love Wuthering Heights so much?
I know that there is a whole world of possibilities left. I know it may get better but I’m in the state of almost all hopelessness, living day to day, trying not to think, trying to somehow stop the sinking feels. But I still hope you’ll make it through this all. I still believe it gets better. I might not get a happy ever after but it will be better.
Me x