I slumped into a creative withdrawal yesterday morning, unable to string some sentences together. My mind wandered, as always, bouncing around from nonsense to more trivial clutter. Eventually, I woke up staring at a blog article, one of those trite lists detailing twenty things you must do in your twenties. God damn it–this is what I’ve come to. You know it’s bad when you’re actually searching this garbage, merely to avoid whatever you’re suppose to do. Well, this article derailed me even more, nonetheless, some value yielded from it.
The #20 item one must do in their twenties is to write their future self a letter (yeah, I read the entire article). I recall doing this exercise when I entered high school and later receiving the letter right prior to graduation. The letter was somewhat embarrassing, but also reflected an honest introspection. Therefore, recognizing how much I’ve developed in this past year, I figured what the hell, let me wipe my soul onto a one-page letter. So I began.
Letters, in my opinion, are the most personal form of communication. Someone can confess their love or problems over the phone or through text message, but when one formulates their thoughts and emotions only to splatter it out onto a page, that truly evokes real vibrant emotion. For instance: numerous books have been published just on authors’ compilations of letters. Letters deliver insight into the real man behind the pen or typewriter. Furthermore, the process is arduous: requires time to think and time to write, no matter how competent of a writer.
I signed my name, dated it, and stored it away deep inside of my mac folder, only to be opened years away. I felt fulfilled, and actually, galvanized to write more letters. Then, it was patently apparent what to write next– a love letter. Love letters require time– much more time than all other letters. I mean, love is a process, which unfolds and develops over a period, and contrary to mainstream belief, it is not instantaneous. With that, love letters undergo a similar procedure: an unrolling of your feelings, exposing your true, vulnerable identity and rich emotions for the other person.
In a nutshell, I’m not finished. I attempted to do it in one sitting, but that try became futile. Revisions and editing were ceaseless, only to be left with some unorganized feelings. As I stated previously, it’s a process. So, I’m back at it again today, sculpting away, applying syntax with the hope that it might just graze the surface.