Wow, there’s so much to say, yet nothing at all.
I don’t have much to say to you, for I think you have always done your best. I guess maybe that it gets better, but I guess that’s irrelevant now. Because I’m already here. You already made it. It doesn’t matter because it’s over. The past. But soon this letter will become the past and the future and your opinions will change, my opinions will change. I’m assuming something will change.
I more wonder what I have to say to you, the more I actually wonder what you would have to say to me—I know you have something. You always have an opinion.
Maybe you would tell me to have more fun. At least I hope you would. I wish you would give me justification to let loose and to stop thinking. At least you could say it and I would smile a knowing smile and that would be it.
You’d probably tell me to keep on going, that I have, you have, made it this far. But I guess that’s just what I’d want you to say. To give me a push to keep going, just as we both know I will.
I wish you would tell me something snotty and blunt. Something that would make me say “Kids, man,” but I know you would never do that. You would never be rude or rash or just give me the facts. That’s not saying you wouldn’t give great advice, but it would be advice you would expect to get from a grandma or at least some one 40+. You were 40 then, and I’m 45 now. Or at least that’s what they say “16 going on 45,” while my sister is “14 going on 21.” Not much has changed. Me, you, us, I, we haven’t changed. We are the same philosophical, deep-thinking, conundrum contemplating, old soul.
I don’t think this is a bad thing, but is it a good thing? Are we forever condemned to be “older than our age”? To be mature? Is there even anyone out there that is like that? That we could genuinely confide in?
I think you would tell me to go lay in some fields. You would know I missed that. Those recesses where everyone else played games or tag, and I just laid there, in the middle of it all, looking at the sky, feeling at peace.
I think you would tell me to read more. To stop thinking so much, and I would then make an offhanded remark about how you could do, but you would just scowl—at least I would hope you would, because I truly think you are smarter than me. No smarter isn’t the right word, smarter isn’t a word to describe us.
And I guess I would tell you that you did a good job. That I’m proud of who I am now, of what you lead me to become. I’m happy you didn’t indulge in gossip. That you didn’t care about the frivolous going-ons of other people. Because I still don’t, and I think it’s made me better or at least it makes me feel better.
The truth is that we wanted, and want, someone to reach out, to say something encouraging. But the truth is that we don’t even know what to ourself.
I think I saw this quote that said something sappy—no that isn’t the right word, that isn’t our word—something depressing, no, something true, not quite, let’s just say I saw something, and it said something along the lines of “those who are damaged give the best advice” or maybe it was lonely or “have the happiest smile.” I don’t know. I don’t think of us as damaged, so I’m not quite sure why I brought it up, except you do. You know. You, I, me, my, us, we, I know me best. You know me best.
I guess that just makes this letter irrelevant, because you probably know what I’m going to say when I don’t even know what I’m going to answer. Although I’m probably giving you too much credit, like I always do, and maybe you know jack shit as much as me.
Maybe we have changed, but we know we haven’t changed at all.
Anyway, all the best and more,