Dear Mr. Clem
I have made a point of not writing to you for the past few months. I would apologize but it has become harder and harder to write you with each passing day. I would want to tell you what was going on with my life, hear from you what you think should be done, but it always came down to me staring at a blank page wondering how I can bring myself to telling you something I have already told you before.
This year feels like it has been put on repeat; like 2014 got too lazy to come up with new things to throw at me and just decided to put me through what I have been through before and I don’t think that that was fair, nor just, nor even smart on its part.
Some would call me the stupid one for agreeing to go along with it; why would you succumb to the same circumstances you had to endure before? you may ask. I would not have an answer for you, Clem, except that, maybe this time, I hoped it would end differently…or not end at all.
But alas, the same outcome has been bestowed on the stupid girl with the weird scenarios about life, about people, about chances. Although, I have seen some do tremendous things with their second chance, but this…this one was wasted, discarded before it even began.
I understand that it is my fault for allowing things to go this way again, for letting patterns form into my skin and colors drain from the fabric of this ungodly year, but you need to understand, I wanted it to work this time, so badly.
You can’t force anyone to feel about you the way you did them. It is and has always been the human condition, a simple reading of Sense and Sensibility would tell you just that. However, since the beginning of time, stupid people have endeavored to try. And we do romanticize things beyond measure and make people out to be better, sweeter and more caring than they actually are, forgetting that in reality they have done nothing but sow patterns into our skin, scaring memories on the inside of our eye lids and breaking each and every word they ever gave us.
I am writing you this letter, Clem, knowing that the higher probability is that you will not receive it, or will not remember who I am for even I forgot. Yet, with this knowledge, I still endeavor to reach you and wait for you to write back.