It’s been quite a while since the last time I’ve written you a letter that I’m not really sure how to begin this one. Even now, as I write, I still don’t have a purpose for bringing out my paper and pen yet again. I don’t know. It’s just might feel good to write again.
It’s funny how I start out not knowing what to say, then, while writing, hundreds of thoughts would suddenly bombard my mind, all vying for a space in this paper. Then, just as the surge of ideas begin, my board-of-censors of a brain suddenly awakens and starts editing my mile-long melodrama, omitting a part here and there, until I’m left with nothing but fragments. Fragments. And then the storyline changes.
Still with me? I hope so, though I can never tell you for certain if I am still with myself. I just wrote that. – with unknown purpose, of course. Or maybe my brain thought it (but the brain’s the editor, right? It must have been my mind then) but where did the thought come from? Do you know where thoughts come from? And why do some people have better thoughts than others? And how can some people store and retrieve more thoughts than others when we all have, more or less, equal brain sizes? Maybe the scientists are right (for lack of a better word) in assuming that only a fraction of the brain actually functions. Still, it doesn’t explain where thoughts come from, as in how the very first thought of man originated. And what was the very first thought of man anyway? After years of studying anatomy, physiology and neuroanatomy, I still don’t have an answer. I think I’d just settle with the anthroposophical belief that the soul dictates man’s whole being (thank you, Dhates, for this insight). Maybe my soul told me what to write (oh, so now it’s the soul…hmmm…).
Okay, half a page of this paper and I probably have bored you to death. I didn’t intend to write about all that – just some thoughts that have been plaguing me for the longest time. I have so much to tell you, yet I don’t want to tell you. So if I don’t want to tell you about them, then there really is no point in writing this letter, is there? [sigh] This must be the silliest, most pointless letter you’ve ever read. Then again, it’s unique – none among my previous letters quite like it. I like unique (uniqueness?) so maybe I like this letter despite its strangeness, but that doesn’t mean you’ll like it, too. You do find it strange, don’t you? Even I can’t figure out if I’m writing a letter for you or for my diary, or maybe this could even qualify for an essay.
I often write, as you might have guessed – for myself, for some people, for you, and sometimes (no, often, more like everyday) just for the knack of it. Sometimes, after writing, I find the peaceful serenity my mind craves. You see, my mind is a jungle of thoughts. I think even without thinking of thinking, so you can probably imagine how wonderful an experience it is to have my mind cleared even just for a short while.
Two thirds through this page and you’ve probably noted the cynic sarcasm (sarcastic cynicism?) of my writing. Am I sarcastic? Am I cynical? Hmm… there’s no certainty on the matter. What do know is that my writing must have been influenced by the great number of young adult horror books I’ve read while growing up. Yes, that must be the reason. Thanks to Christopher Pike and R.L. Stine, I have mastered the art of bringing you to an excruciating death by boredom.
Just a fourth of this paper remains and I’ve yet to discover my purpose for writing. All I’ve done is write as the thoughts came, and they’ve popped out at such a slow pace because my editor is quite choosy. You probably won’t believe it took me seven hours just to get to this part of the letter. This is the longest time it took me to write a single page of a letter.
Still, I have a feeling that I will not get the peace of mind I seek even if I finish this because something else dominates my present state of mind. I feel restless but I sure do hope I’d get to sleep as soon as I lie on my bed – it’s late into the night anyway (or, more aptly, well into the morning).
If you’re bored with this, then there’s not much you can do, is there? You’re about done with it anyway. Simply put, I guess I just wanted to tell you that I miss you [smile]. You might have already guessed it half-way through this letter, with my stalling and nonsense ranting. I keep editing it, omitting it, finding some other things to say, but it keeps popping in my mind. Quite stubborn. Very, very stubborn.
