It is remarkable how often we change yet don't even realize that it happened until we already baptized ourselves into these new forms.
The fiancé and I have commented multiple times that we don't think we would have liked each other in high school.
Funny how things turn out.
I hope you don't mind if I tell my part of the discussion with Denver first, his will be next time. I want to perfectly translate his story to you since it really is quite beautiful.
Denver also said that it would be good for me to publicize this anyway; I have some things to get off my chest.
You know how when you're really angry at someone? You know, really angry?
Like you'd say you hate them now because they've made you so angry. But you can't confront them for what they did for certain reasons, like they're your boss, or the president or dead.
And then someone suggests that you write a letter expressing everything you feel to them.
But then you can do whatever you want with that letter.
Shred it, burn it, leave it in your desk drawer next to old batteries and paperclips.
You could send it too you know, if you really felt up to it.
Felt brave enough to.
Maybe brave isn't the word to use; it can't be applicable to everyone.
Because you can be scared instead.
That can be your motive to send the letter to someone you hate. That's how I did it.
I wrote that letter out of fear, sheer terror. Because I hate that person,
but I'm even more scared of her.
This girl is me, or rather was me. The old me. We'll call her Angela because I've always hated being called that. I'm not saying I wrote a letter to myself because that's just too personal and I'm not comfortable with getting personal with this girl because she scares me.
I didn't hate Angela a year ago; I didn't even know she existed yet. She paraded down the linoleum hallways smacking her red lips at the Clouds, Knitted Sweaters and everything else she thought was beautiful. She spent far too much time daydreaming about people who would never love her back which is why she longed for them in the first place.
She wore itchy socks and tight jeans because that's what the pretty girls wore and they had so many friends and always seemed to be smiling with those white teeth. Angela only smiled when she knew people were watching and when she came home she would lie on her bed for hours staring at the ceiling, daydreaming those same dreams.
Angela never knew what a real dream was.
Or what she could do with one if she caught hold of it. Angela never knew comfortable shoes existed and that it was healthier to eat protein and vegetables than just air.
I remember Angela had shifty eyes that were always looking around, making sure she was aware of everything around her so she wouldn't be taken by surprise. She said she only felt free in her writing but she still just wrote only what the Clouds and Knitted Sweaters wanted to hear.
Angela hated herself.
But she had too much pride to admit it so she blamed everyone around her. The Sweaters, the White Smiles and the Clouds. Angela ran away and slowly died a painless death. It's because she was so weak you know?
Months later, I found out who Angela was. I learned she had lots of friends and wore too much eyeliner. She had never really wanted to kiss anyone but really just wanted to feel like someone wanted to kiss her. Angela had fake hair, fake glasses and fake smiles. She hated it all.
Denver was the one who told me to write the letter. I cannot send it though because she's dead remember? Slow and painless remember?
Like the first time you get a head-rush. You just don't know what is happening, but you feel certain that it's wrong but necessary.
Angela knew she was dying but didn't mind much. She hated herself all the same.
I never went to the funeral or saw the obituary.
No one packed up her clothes until I found them lying dusty in her drawers.
I would leave flowers by her tombstone if she had one but no one knows where it is.
She just died and no one really cared much after that.
I haven't burned the letter I wrote or shredded it. I can't send it either, not yet. I'll keep it in one of her sweater's pockets because if she comes back she'll find it and she'll know how I feel.
That's why I'm scared. Because she might come back home you know?
I'm happy right now...and Angela never really was.
She threatens that cherished emotion and that's why I hate her. That's why I wrote the letter that I cannot send. Because how can happiness and self-hatred exist when the Clouds don't care which side you take? Only if you compliment the shape they are today.
See you,
A&D.
