Open Letter #9

Dear ——,

There are some days when I feel good about life, about the world. But more often than not, on days like today, I just can’t find the strength to live anymore. I hardly see any reason to. And that one song playing on repeat certainly isn’t helping matters. But I feel as though I’m not going anywhere, and I just want to do what I want but of course I can’t. Reality’s a bitch that comes knocking. Always. And since the paper won’t judge me, I’ll say now that I’m scared. I don’t believe in my own capabilities because time and time again, I can see just how mediocre they are. How mundane I am. And it’s easier to hide out in this stupid room of mine, hating myself. A million others do it. Blending seems to be a shared talent of ours. I wonder if I’ll continue to be swept away by this pace or if I’ll break it—I wonder how to even begin. Well, I don’t suppose it really matters. I’ll end up dead either way. One of the choices is just a bit faster than the other. (Perhaps less painful, too.)

Yes, this is dreary, but this has a point I swear. Because around you… when you speak and I smile at the terribly normal words coming from your lips, I actually like myself. Life gets un-paused, I’m taken from my room, and I stop feeling like a wound up sorry-for-myself teenager. I’m already too old for that stupid phase.

Just… thank you for that.

—N. Rinth

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