Dear me,
How is life?
Still as callous, crass as childhood,
Fraught with broken dreams and crushed hope,
Which you tried to hang onto like a ladder,
Crumbling to dust with time.
Did you ever talk to her?
Let her know the truth of how you felt.
No?
No shock there. You always were a coward.
Mesmerised by silky skin and waving locks of hair,
Which waved goodbye as they progressed away,
Like a train you could never board.
Did you ever get the dream job?
The one you always told me about,
In hushed whispers, no-one else cared,
Because it was our little secret,
A specialist subject shared only in the language of you and I?
What about friends?
Don’t need them. Ah, I see.
A disagreement. Something for me to look forward to.
Is it looking back for you? This endless monologue
Of progressive thoughts, think think think!
Is this what you wanted?
And what of your hopes? Dreams? Desires?
The pieces of paper which you plotted and planned a dream life,
Shredded into fragmented dust by the monotony of boredom,
Which comes from being average.
A nice life?
You want to know about me?
Little to say, I am young,
Tender, soft-skinned, pampered by
Those agitated puppets who I controlled for years,
Under the ruse of parenting. They are gone now.
For today at least. Time to sleep apparently.
And now, I lie here, in my crib,
A baby, life is new to me, I am pure,
No. That’s stretching it too far.
I have a chance and a choice. A power,
A privilege, freedom, lost on you,
Bestowed on me.
I pray I use it right.
As I write this letter in my mind,
With foamy letters built from hazy thoughts,
I think to myself, is this what I want to be?
Is this future real, or imaginary?