Dear No One,

I should really learn to pick stuff up and let things go. And if you knew me, you'd probably know what that means. The problem is, you probably don't know me... Truth is, I don't really know myself. But that's not why I'm writing to you. I'm writing to you, because I need to write to someone, but I don't know who to, and I need to write something, but I don't know what about.

Of course, that's really nothing new... But then again, if you notice, this letter is probably just as old. Just like the dusty boxes that line my attic wall. Boxes filled with memories that I've long forgotten. I would pack this memory up and keep it there, too, but I figured, why bother. The whole place is cluttered and my life is a mess. Another crumpled piece of paper on the muddy floor wouldn't make it any worse than it already is.

Someone anonymous once told me that life failed. And with multiple exclamation marks at that. I guess he or she could be right. Life probably did fail. Of course, it doesn't mean that life couldn't get up, shake it off, and try again. It could take time, but the possibility is there.

It's funny how when the people who used to laugh with you have now turned to laugh at you. You can't really tell when that happened, but you know that it did. You wake up and suddenly you're not in on the joke. You wake up and suddenly you are the joke. But of course you're too proud to say anything and so you go on pretending that everything is ok... They do the same. Of course, things could have been that way from the beginning, but you were too oblivious to notice. You poor unfortunate soul. I should probably sing you a song to make you feel better... But I can't really think of a song that would fit this moment.

Oh but look at me, being all sentimental. I should really learn to just shut up and not say everything I think and feel, but I don't think that will happen any time soon. It's a character defect that you just can't correct... Besides, why fix something that's best left broken. Some things are just not meant to be rectified. Of course, that could be symbollic, but who's to tell?

Obviously, there's something wrong. But if I'm not told of what it is, then I'm never going to know, because I'm not as smart as people think I am. Contrary to popular belief, I'm not a mindreader. If I was then my immediate environment would probably be fantastically content with me being in it. Unfortunately I am not and they are not happy. Of course, I could leave... But I'm too tired to do so. And besides, why should I have to? If I have to leave, then everyone else should too.

Tortured. That's probably what would best describe my current state. Of course, that's probably just because I'm pretending to be an artist... And this is the state that artists are supposed to be in. Yes. That's exactly what it is...

I'm tortured. I'm an artist. I'm a tortured artist.

...And I'm writing to you about nothing because there's nothing to write about and no one to write to.


As Always,
D.