"There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed." — Ernest Hemingway
Holding Hands
Purely Personal

A Letter to [My] History

Dear you,

Not a day that I don’t miss you. That’s a lie. Sometimes I don’t think of you at all, but it doesn’t mean that I don’t want you. I think you’re my source of happiness, my balance. With your sense of humor, you’re the only one who knows how to make me laugh when I’m in one of those moods. I know you’re happier over there and I don’t want to bother you, but I can’t help but think of you once in a while. Even when I’m drunk, when I was drunk with you, I was always that type of happy-drunk person. Right now, I’m just destructive and I always like to punch or slap someone.

I know it’s very selfish for me to want you because I think you can fix my life. I know I’m the only one that can fix mine, but then again, you always gave me that bright side, that positivity that I’m lacking in my life, your cheerfulness and your eagerness and your healthy views in life, and you even managed to encourage me using Elmo’s voice.

I can just lie down with you and sleep and be myself, and it’s something that I’ve taken for granted. It’s been eight years. Probably more, I lost count. And I even miss your nagging mom and your dad. They’re the perfect example of what (my) parents should be like. I even fell in love with your family—I felt that they have accepted me the way I was. I am, maybe. I’m so very lost without you. And I know you’ve had crossed other people’s paths and you’ve managed to have your own road, but I haven’t. I don’t know what to do.

I think it’s depression, this lack of motivation to write. You are one of the reasons why I wanted to be one, maybe twenty percent, because you always thought that I was capable of doing so even when I didn’t think I would be one. You were there during my MFA years, when I came home crying because I realized being a writer was not easy at all. Remember the time we celebrated that book you wrote, that we published?

I think I just need to apologize for not believing in us when you did. I’m sorry I looked the other way; I’m sorry that I thought there was someone better than you. There never was. I’m scared that there would never be one.

You show your passion when you talk about something—such a charmer, you are. You were always the center of attention during parties and I never minded. Spotlight craves you; it’s natural for you. You introduced me to Before Sunset and Before Sunrise, you are my Céline. Jesse is such an asshole; he’s me. We’ll have twins that look like you. Maybe we’ll see each other in an altered reality, although I doubt so.

I hope you have a good life. I need to turn another page, but your words are still so wonderful, so mesmerizing, that I keep rereading it over and over again, each one with hope. Nope. It’s actually a toxic hole. I need to turn you over. I love you though, I probably will always love you anyway. Be good, like you always do.

Atitu,
-n

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