I know this isn't a proper letter, because it hasn't got an address, or a stamp, or anything like that. It doesn't even have a greetings line. But it's a letter nonetheless. It's a letter to whoever would read it and answer me and give me some sort of answer.

I suppose if you need an address and a destination to be a letter, you need a plan to be alive. So that means I'm not alive, either. Or at least, I've got a plan, but I haven't got a stamp ... I haven't got a way of getting there. And I haven't got a back up. I've plenty of ideas, but no way of knowing if they'll ever work out, since they're all pretty far fetched. But then again, I've always been a dreamer.

I'm not quite sure why I'm writing now. Something to do with the fact that I have WAY too much on my brain right now and I seriously want to get it out of my head, I guess. This is like me telling you everything, only I've no one to tell. I have people I can talk to, but not about serious stuff. Then I turn to paper, again.

I guess the main thing for me right now is that I feel like I'm being torn in two. I feel that a lot of the time. There are so many things I want to do and I know, oh, I know, that I can't do all of them. I don't have the time and I don't have the money. But that doesn't stop me wanting to do them, and that doesn't make it easier to choose. I can't. I can't take one path and leave the other - they're always on my mind.

How do you make an impossible choice?

I guess you probably know by now that I try to do too much. I guess you also know that I shouldn't be writing this right now. I should be practicing one of my instruments or my new dance step or getting some sleep before the hike I have to go on tomorrow, because I do too much but there's nothing I can do about that. It's who I am.

So I'll leave you now, for that's all I've got to say. Perhaps tomorrow I'll tell you more. Perhaps tomorrow you'll have an answer for me.

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Author guidance for This work

Letters to nobody.

Or maybe to me.

updated Feb 24 '11 by delorfinde