I never did write those letters. Don’t get me wrong. I’d love to and I wanted to pen my thoughts and feelings down. For some reason, I’ve been restless.
The thoughts that haunted me yesterday night still haunt me today, and will continue to do so tomorrow. You see, I have insomnia is not quite the .
I worry about the present participle and the past. I worry about an em dash and a hyphen. I worry about ironies and paradoxes. I worry about you, and me.
That relationship between lines and stanzas, between sentences and paragraphs, between introduction and conclusion, I wanted them developed. These are feelings, so genuine and raw.
I wanted these feelings to be clearly expressed on a clean sheet. I’d first start with a scribble, catch momentum along the way and eventually churn out a diarrhoea. I’d have them sanitised before getting them plastered and sealed. Finally, reaching you.
Except the letter was never written and it never did get to you.