Dear Evelyn

I know I haven’t talked to you in a while, but it’s because of a very simple reason. You might not understand it, or maybe you might not even want to, that I don’t much mind, but please do read, for I strongly need to speak.

For 3 months, I have seen nothing but a blank page. Normally, it wouldn’t have bothered me, maybe I wouldn’t have even realised that I hadn’t written anything that would make sense since what seemed forever to me. Though now, more than ever, I needed to write. I needed to feel the words flow, the thoughts come, to see the page fill up as someone looked down at the sentences, the so long sentences that maybe made no sense to them. Maybe what I really needed was the security of doing something, something that would actually mean that everything was okay.

Because I didn’t get it anymore. There was nothing that made sense to me, not even my own thoughts-especially my own thoughts. People… They didn’t have meaning anymore. They were all superficial, stupid, naïve… Probably as much as I was. I could have written pages and pages about sadness, about what I thought life was. Though who would want to read books that made them depressed? Who wanted stories that could make them cry? Maybe that was one of the reasons why I was mad. Not even in writing, the only thing that made me say what I couldn’t say aloud, could I express my true thoughts. And everything else… I couldn’t talk about it. I didn’t know how to talk about normal stuff, I couldn’t find THE idea of a story, an article, a book that would make everyone listen. I had to find it if I wanted to get somewhere. That was the big thing: the hypocrisy of it all.

How I hated when people said that everything was simple, that people were all nice, that everyone had a chance to get to their dreams. The stupidity of these thoughts… I couldn’t bare it, it made me scream out my frustration, but on the inside, because on the outside, you’re not allowed to.

I had stopped dreaming, because wishing things to be great was like hoping to win the lottery when you didn’t even buy a ticket. They say it’s just a phase, a moment that would pass. I clung to that thought, I clung to it desperately and tried to simply survive instead of living, because wanting to live hurt too much.

The thing is, I knew what getting through it meant. I remembered being happy, I had almost got there, but I had immediately failed in completing that task and went back to simply surviving. Though sadness, I had understood, wasn’t how things were, it was how you saw them. One second, it’s the end of the world and a moment later, you know everything is okay, even if the situation didn’t change, it was you who had changed.

I keep hoping to change and it is that hope that keeps me alive. Though writing you this letter helped, even if I will never send it to you, no matter how much you say we are friends, because you wouldn’t understand it and you would do like everyone else: judge. Don’t worry, I’m not mad at you for doing it, for I would do the same. I know you will never read this letter, but still I’ll keep on wishing that you’ll read it in my eyes.

Your truly,

Angela