Today I gave a friend a letter that I wrote a long time ago. It was just a birthday letter, and nothing of any sensitive material. She opened it, appeared to love what was written on a blank sheet of off white parchment, and I had no idea what it said.

I wrote it a while ago, just kept missing opportunities to give it to her, and ended up unfortunately with a very belated birthday gift. I remembered about it today, and mostly, just in that it was seven months later I decided to stop being a shitty friend and do it.

When I was at her house, I looked at the letter lying on her countertop, saw and remembered that I wrote about halfway into the sheet, very much found myself interested in what I had written, and very much couldn’t bring myself to re-read it. I didn’t understand why at the time, and in a way I still don’t completely.

It wasn’t that I had changed, or that I didn’t mean now what I wrote then. I know that whatever it says, I’m sure I mean it now more than ever. I just realized in retrospect that I was not under the same mindset that manifested itself into that letter. In a way, I had only imagined that I wouldn’t be standing there while she opened it. And I was. And for whatever reason, that couldn’t bring me to re-read what I had written.

Somethings I think, are inseparable from the moment of their creation.

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~ by crossmd on April 29, 2011.

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