I wrote letters for myself five years from now telling him that it's okay to cry once in a while that tears are not a sign of weakness but an emotion taking shape freeing itself from the binds of body.
I comfort him with lies telling him that if he waits eventually everything will turn out fine, that the fire won't burn as much if left untouched
I tell him that broken guitars can sing too. Out of tune maybe but the melody is there howling on the moon and the shadows are its audience.
I convince him to tuck himself on bed every night and sleep to count the sheep and drift away without the help of tears.
I tell him that I hope five years from now that he reads these letters, that i pray it won't be left unread collecting dust in the corner of an empty room deprived of joy and life.