Dear Reader,

I wish that losing goodness was not a choice, but a reaction. Actually... I guess it should be a reaction, but I wish it happened easily. I am tired of this goodness, and this pretense of not caring. I hear a name and I turn my head away as if not to listen. I whisper certain names, and I am so careful as to not let their names roll against my tongue for too long - I breathe it out, loud enough for someone else to hear and speak it softly as to not let it dribble from the corner of my mouth. I pause after I speak to hold the bitterness in, to make sure that the world does not see that I am affected this way. And when I hear their names echo in my head - I am erasing it just as it passes it by.

The blood rushes to my head as I write this. I blame this response upon my inner self-loathing. I have enough reasons to love myself and only one reason to hate me. I am so crippled with what weakens me - what weakens my mind. Should I tell you why I hate myself so much? Or would you rejoice in the light of joy, just knowing... Just understanding what poison seeps through me.

It was suppose to go away, but it's still there and it has given me skin for scars. You can't see it. You're not suppose to - could I let you? No. I didn't mean to hurt myself. I didn't think I was going to be like this. I don't know what it was that I wanted. I wasn't seeking anything I swear, but something came and it chose me. How was I suppose to refuse when I didn't know what was there to refuse?

This is just ridiculous.
I just shouldn't be feeling this way.

Yours Truly,
Me.

Dear you..

I'm really sorry for everything we weren't. I've lost my chance to be yours and had I learned to keep my mouth shut - I guess things would have been different. And yet in truth - no. Things would have been the same. Our paths may have crossed but I guess if we stayed on that course for too long, our feet would bleed because the road would have been too bumpy. I don't know. That may not be true, but I think it is the closest to the truth.

I don't know you, but I know that I miss you. I guess it's because I knew it was okay to like you, but that's not the case anymore. I know if you were to read this letter, you will react with disgust, because I feel, that is the only way you could react. Because you've chosen not to care. That is what you want is it not? To not care? And yes, I do feel as if you would rather not have anything to do with me. And I don't blame you, because I think, maybe that's the only way you've learned to deal with things like these.

I wish I had gotten to know you, but I think I was too caught up with trying to win you over. I did that wrongly though. I think I did. Well - Obviously I did, or we would not have ended up like this. Truthfully, I don't know how else to respond to this, or to you rather but to write a letter. To just write it out, this is the only way I've learned to deal with how I feel, while acknowledging and knowing that every word does not matter, knowing that every word would not be read by you and yet there is some sort of comfort in knowing that. In knowing that if you never read this, you could never condemn me for feeling this way. There's something awfully pathetic about though isn't there?

Maybe I miss you superficially and I say that because as I've said - I just don't know you. I could try to pretend that I've figured you out, but all I know is that you, yourself - haven't figured you out. I'm not trying to be mean, if it seems like it - but I'm just saying - I hope you know that there is something to you that I think you have not noticed yet and I wish I could be the one who could be there when you find it. Because I'm so curious to know what it is too.

Know that I dislike writing this.
Know that this is not everything that I wish that I could say.
Know that I am the one who wants you.
Know that I am the one who thinks of you.
Know that if you had let us, we could be more than this. More than this.
Know that I have no heart to initiate something with you.
Know that this is not love. But something that could've been.

Yet I have no right to say that.

I feel better when I think of you than the one before.
I guess you're that "now" feeling.

Yours Truly,
Me.

Dear Reader,

I think our generation has some sort of internal obsession with pain. Maybe it is our need for something real - and perhaps we imagine that if we feel pain then that marks our experiences as something true. There's so much drama in what we go through for the sake of wanting something to be undeniable; the need to feel that we're here that - "Hey. I exist" feeling.

As much as I had wanted that - I, however, now have a want to wake up to realize - "Hey. It wasn't real." It's not pain anymore that I've been going through. It's just sadness. I guess that pain's died out and the ashes it left is still seeping into my skin. Everything is too late now. Words can't change anything. Actions become meaningless unless it could change everything - but like I've said. Everything is too late now.

I've been trying to keep myself grounded, but I find that I only continue to bury myself now. I'm not sure what this feeling is. How could I love one and not want them but miss another but not love them at all? Is that moving on? Is that what it's like? It is not that my heart and mind is torn. It is not that my body and soul is torn. It's just - the two have been so close to one other that I strangely feel there is something wrong with the merging. Perhaps it is something to get use to? I'm not quite sure. I'm just searching for reason now.

There is so much I've not written to you about reader. It's not that it is a secret. I just feel that you need to be left out sometimes. Sometimes.

Yours Truly,
Nayt.