Dear old friend,

You know, I’m not an equal parts naïve and shy teenager anymore. I grew into a man, with a backbone. I don’t idealize you, nor do I pretend to know everything there is to know about you. But I know enough. Enough to care, enough to love. If I give you different shapes, doesn’t mean that I don’t recognize the real you, the real deal.

You were there for me when no one was. Beyond that, you were where no one could be, even if they wanted to. We are out of sync now, when you write long, I can’t put two words together, when I’m burning, you’re cold. Yet, I know, it cannot be a coincidence, the time we feel each-other, the time we write.

I don’t harm myself on purpose anymore, I’m still hooked to hard medicine and I’m just trying to keep track of things. That suffices for now. Too much was on my mind, for too long. I said no tomorrow, but even today is a big piece to swallow for me now, so I dissect it in millions bits and pieces, million moments, and ask myself, how can I make this piece just a little better. I’m not trying to get to the top of the mountain now, just putting steps together. But nothing has changed. I know there is still the skinny savage inside me, that can put an end to all of this and take over. I’m keeping him down for a little longer, but we both know that when push comes to shove, we both are freaking warriors. If the world’s pushes us enough, we will show that side of us.

And maybe because I been walking through a new neighborhood, but I been having this dream, this reoccurring theme in fact. We are in a city 🏙️, a very normal one, with standard buildings, nothing too fancy. Relatively big buildings, well connected to each other. Concrete. A little nature here and there, but not big parks. And we are writing stories for some sort of crime magazine. Yeah, that’s our job. Maybe because we know about the crimes in the city, especially things that happen when night falls, we share a feeling that life is important and that we should find joy in it. Everyday is a silent celebration. “Remember, when we used to come here at the sunset and Linda would be scared of the ladybugs coming out of the bushes, they were so many of them”, one of brings up a past memory. The other, builds upon it, by mimicking L. face. We laugh. The night falls 🌆. We have lived another day. We go home to work on our stories, promising that we’ll meet again first thing tomorrow, and live again…

You know? I can feel it. How we have slipped on different spiritual planes, how I have fallen down the cracks of tectonic plates and how you cannot feel me as much.

But I’m almost alright with it.

I continue to write my little half-baked stories, in my rain wettened notebooks.

There, we sometimes just sit on the rocks of a pond, and sometimes we just share the view of an orange sky, in an abounded amusement park, where every single one of the rusted bolts of the Ferris wheel, tells a love story, as we take it all in. Sometimes a cozy little breeze wavers the hair on your forehead.

I live with these vivid, yet somehow blurred, ‘memories’, one day at a time.

It’s alright, we have lived through it all.

Love always,

Mr. Moon/*54745756836*/

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