letters
drip, drip, drip. sometimes as bytes. sometimes as sound. and sometimes in ink, that will never dry.
sentiments immortalized in ink, some of which may never fully dry. it's something to keep, but never to "own." when we return to these words, they can mean new things. they can feel hollow, like an empty room. they can feel alive, like the person is there with you. forever can feel not so long, or the past can feel like an eternity ago.
will you have said everything you wanted to? if it's the last thing you wrote, would you have regrets?
somehow bytes on a computer seem immortal, but they always get lost in a sea of thoughts. maybe you'll happen upon them again. or maybe the cloud will have evaporated, not yet returning to the ocean.
when I read that letter from 4 birthdays ago, I remember that forever has since ended. the ink remains, but it's now dry. maybe if I press on it, it might smudge. I'm way too scared to try.
when I read a letter from 3 birthdays ago, I couldn't imagine why you'd think that of me. when some find their faith in a book written by men yelling in a room, I found mine in the words you wrote I was.
this birthday, I remember that there is an expanse ahead of me. I am reminded explicitly that I must explore it in a way that is true to me, and that directions are just a phone call away.
am I right? am I wrong? am I on the path you set me on? am I speaking into the void? am I receiving things incorrectly? are you just words on a page? are you going to live in ink on paper?
words, carefully chosen or unconsciously streamed, make up a long procession of ideas that fill a bucket into a pond into a lake and then an ocean.
drip, drip, drip. sometimes as bytes. sometimes as sound. and sometimes in ink, that will never dry.
