i am afraid to talk about it anymore, nervous i will publicly become the broken record that i know myself to be, but rarely let on to others that i am.

the shame of it. the fucking shame of it. not being strong enough to just get things right. not knowing better than to keep my mouth shut.

trying to find new and elegant ways to describe or write about this is like pulling my skin off in thick layers; a pressure of finding a different way to lay my self open to the blasting heat of the sun.

i am unused to this psychological outlet.

usually, it is only in letters that i am given the chance to unburden myself to another person. bringing these words to my lips would loosen something in me that i am afraid of, and that i do not want to drown someone else in.

the solitary and meditative practice of wrapping my fingers around a pen and scratching on paper with the most heated, frenetic, grinding, tear-streaked, or, alternately, funny, light, self-depracating happenings is unlike anything else i do. creating an intimate space between myself and someone else, all contained in an envelope, carried with faith by a stranger to the person i am trying to reach; it holds within it the concentrated focus of attention at once on myself and someone else that is particular only to that. the fact that this is maintained over distance...it's why i have slept with letters under my pillow, i have written letters that have found themselves inside bedsheets, in glove compartments, backpacks and in favorite books. it's the smell of letters, the way the crease darkens, how you know it's corners and the details of the writer's penmanship. how they stack, or look held together in ribbon. being able to order them by postmark. defining a single hour, or afternoon, or thought and giving it a physical manifestation...

it's the everything of letters.

and, perhaps most importantly in this context, it is the private nature of this sort of communication that allows me the freedom to say exactly what i need to, exactly as i want to. there are no facial expressions to contend with, no one is going to interrupt me, i can search for words as long as i like. in the act of writing my sadnesses and triumphs in a letter, i can, at least in my own head, imagine that what i say is taken exactly as i mean it to be, at least until it becomes apparent some days/weeks/months later that there has been a miscommunication of some sort.

and maybe that is what i like most, (the illusion of) being perfectly understood, and because of that, perfectly appreciated.