I wrote another letter to a writer this weekend.
It was easy and free. It was the page and me. It was a cure of mundane. I was a moment regained.
Time deep in the sea. Words between the writer and me. Time in the lap of fucking luxury.
So many things I have wanted to be. Never anything like a writer rooted so widely in me. I think I write letters to writers to ask writers for letters. An exercise in jealousy.
I wrote another letter to a writer this weekend. I’ll write another five hundred while I wait.
For a letter writing moment when I’m strong enough to write to myself. Writing something of all these memories before my pens pack up and tell me it is too late. Before my pens pack up and tell me my letters are too late.