To: Me.
Hey.
Hey, a couple years older version of me.
Well this is awkward, considering you're only going to cringe as you read this. You're going to laugh and think “what the fuck was I thinking, writing this?” and curl up your fingers and toes as you keep reading it. It’s 3 PM on an early February and I don't know what’s got into you that made you write this. You always think shit like this is cheesy as fuck but fuck that. Fuck everything. I want to do things that I want to do and I want to write this letter to you.
But on a more serious note, I hope you’re doing okay; if not, at least you’re surviving. I guess that’s the only thing that matters to you, surviving. It means you’re not giving up; you’re still fighting, to live. To feel alive. And I’m proud of you for doing so.
I’m not happy. Your younger self is not happy right now. I don’t know how you are doing, and honestly I don’t want to expect anything. If you’re still not happy, it’s okay, it probably takes more time. If you are, then it’s better. Oh, if you are happy, please do not forget to write down things that make you feel that way and keep it somewhere safe. Do not lose it. Once again, please write it down; do not rely solely on your memories because we both know how our poor memory works. And why, you ask? I just want to make sure your much older self does not forget what makes her happy, what happiness feels like, and live a quite a miserable life,
like I do right now.
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