Wednesday 30 August 2017

#235 Unsent letter

I think about writing to you sometimes. I'm prone to both thinking and writing so it's hardly surprising. The passage of time almost seems reason enough to get in touch. Sometimes it is. I can't imagine anyone would envy you my thoughts. To be on my mind is to be caught in a drizzle. So there you go. The part of you that's over here is being rained on. Maybe that's all I meant to say. That there's a part of you still here.

At least, I imagine there to be. I don't lay claim to any of your parts, as desireable as some of them are. They are yours alone. Tell me, how are your parts?

I once had a friend named Kevin, who would ask how I was. Every morning, without fail. In a way, it was odd. Could he possibly have genuinely wondered how I was at precisely the time that we met each day? Did it never occur to him that in striking up a conversation some other way, he might notice from my tone how I was without having to ask?

I replied all the same. That sort of social conditioning can be hard to avoid. Yet if we succumb to it for long enough, we eventually have no idea how we are, or whether we care how someone else is. We simply follow the protocol, for its own sake. It feels much safer than the alternative. Still, I hope you are well.

There has been little change at this end. If and when there is, I'm sure I'll let you know. Seeing as you are more proactive in general, perhaps your circumstances will soon change and I'll hear from you less. 

I think that's all for now.



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