Dear Mrs. Lonelyheart,
Though you may not know me, I am a complete stranger to you, I may not be as foreign to you as it may appear. I know you. I am you.
Not in a physical realm, of which would place us both in the same corporeal body, but in soul, the way we feel and think and love.
I know you feel so small, so completely insignificant and so utterly invisible. I know you feel like you need to be someone, but feel like maybe being no one is all you'll ever amount to.
I know you feel frustrated with the world, its ever-present pressure weighing on your shoulders. The need to be perfect, the pressure to be beautiful. I know that society has told you how to be, who you should be, and what you should aspire to be. But I also know it lied.
I am fully aware of all your insecurities, because they are mine. You are conscious of your fears, and more often than not, allow them to guide you. I do too.
You are afraid of being alone, of being abandoned. You do not attach yourself to any one person for this very reason. People always leave. You are afraid to love, for your heart cannot bear the pain of loss. Not again. You are afraid to fly, because if you do, you are afraid you might be the only bird in the sky. You can stand on the edge of this cliff held above the rest of the world so high, but you are afraid to keep still, because if you stay in one place, enjoy the view, you know eventually someone or something will come up behind and push you over. And in that retrospect, you fear the fall. You are afraid to speak, afraid to form words, sing, because if you do, your breath might be stolen away.
The people in your life pay no mind, hold no concern, care not at all, your fears are kept to yourself. If they knew how you felt, they might pull away. It's okay, I am afraid of this same outcome. Because it's happened before.
You are afraid to fail, because your future depends on your success. The story being written for you isn't finished, but you fear the ending. What if this story turns into a tragedy? What if I don't ever get my happy ending? I ask these same questions.
The relationships you hold are fleeting, temporary. If they even come close to being something else, the walls go up, you keep them all out. Getting close is risky, feeling love is scary. Your heart knows not to take the chance, it has learned its lesson well. It, in cooperation with your mind, hold everyone at arms length, because rational thinking takes control over your sporadic emotions.
I relate to you in the most intimate ways, Mrs. Lonelyheart. I feel what you feel, I fear what you fear, I keep the same distance you do. I wash my pain away by painting a picture in words on a page, and create characters who are much braver than I. I create stories that I know have a happy ending, because I know my ending is not yet determined. I have an outlet to live vicariously through. Do you?
I feel helpless in this world, feel so unimportant. My words will go unheard, my thoughts forever lost in a history of writers much more known than I. I know I am looking toward the future, my future, with apprehension. Because I fear the most of the people who will never read, never see, what truly lies beneath. More than just skin, more than just this shell, I know I have more to give. But will others accept me? I know you ask this question again and again, trying to find the answer in anyone you can. But the men you waste your time with do not know what acceptance means. They can't give you the answers you need. Your friends are so wrapped up in their own problems, their own doubts, they don't have time to console you.
My message to you, Mrs. Lonelyheart, is not to give up. This is not a pity letter; these here words are that of love. I love you. I need you in this world. I appreciate the air you breathe because that air is mine as well. I give you hope, not because I have some to give, no. But because I find hope in everything around me. There is hope in the trees, as they sway, standing tall, just like we should. There is hope in the ocean, its vast expanse of life, roaring up to shore, washing away the solo set of footprints of which we have walked. There is hope in the stars, the same stars that I know billions of others, all around the world, view every night. That hope revives me, reminding me that happiness is possible. There is someone out there, standing under the same bright sun, who was made for me. Made for you. Made for us. And they will, some how, some way, some day, find us. They will resurrect all that has died within us, those butterflies we thought were gone for good. They will love us unconditionally, they will never judge, and they will make us feel safe, as safe as we deserve to be. They will hold our hearts in their hands and guard it as precious gems, as our hearts deserve to be guarded.
I am telling you to find your strength. In the little things that make you happy. In the bigger picture of life itself. You are not alone. You never will be. Because you have me.
I know you, Mrs. Lonelyheart. Because I am you. I am fighting for you. Because that means I am fighting for me. I am keeping my eyes locked on the sky, conversing with the stars, hoping you will hear my pleas. Because these times are excruciating. And when I feel like I am on the verge of collapsing to the earth from the exhaustion this world has laid on me, I talk to you. I know you can't hear me. I can hear me. And that's enough.
Though you may not know me, I am a complete stranger to you, I may not be as foreign to you as it may appear. I know you. I am you.
Sincerely,
Mrs. Lonelyheart
Not in a physical realm, of which would place us both in the same corporeal body, but in soul, the way we feel and think and love.
I know you feel so small, so completely insignificant and so utterly invisible. I know you feel like you need to be someone, but feel like maybe being no one is all you'll ever amount to.
I know you feel frustrated with the world, its ever-present pressure weighing on your shoulders. The need to be perfect, the pressure to be beautiful. I know that society has told you how to be, who you should be, and what you should aspire to be. But I also know it lied.
I am fully aware of all your insecurities, because they are mine. You are conscious of your fears, and more often than not, allow them to guide you. I do too.
You are afraid of being alone, of being abandoned. You do not attach yourself to any one person for this very reason. People always leave. You are afraid to love, for your heart cannot bear the pain of loss. Not again. You are afraid to fly, because if you do, you are afraid you might be the only bird in the sky. You can stand on the edge of this cliff held above the rest of the world so high, but you are afraid to keep still, because if you stay in one place, enjoy the view, you know eventually someone or something will come up behind and push you over. And in that retrospect, you fear the fall. You are afraid to speak, afraid to form words, sing, because if you do, your breath might be stolen away.
The people in your life pay no mind, hold no concern, care not at all, your fears are kept to yourself. If they knew how you felt, they might pull away. It's okay, I am afraid of this same outcome. Because it's happened before.
You are afraid to fail, because your future depends on your success. The story being written for you isn't finished, but you fear the ending. What if this story turns into a tragedy? What if I don't ever get my happy ending? I ask these same questions.
The relationships you hold are fleeting, temporary. If they even come close to being something else, the walls go up, you keep them all out. Getting close is risky, feeling love is scary. Your heart knows not to take the chance, it has learned its lesson well. It, in cooperation with your mind, hold everyone at arms length, because rational thinking takes control over your sporadic emotions.
I relate to you in the most intimate ways, Mrs. Lonelyheart. I feel what you feel, I fear what you fear, I keep the same distance you do. I wash my pain away by painting a picture in words on a page, and create characters who are much braver than I. I create stories that I know have a happy ending, because I know my ending is not yet determined. I have an outlet to live vicariously through. Do you?
I feel helpless in this world, feel so unimportant. My words will go unheard, my thoughts forever lost in a history of writers much more known than I. I know I am looking toward the future, my future, with apprehension. Because I fear the most of the people who will never read, never see, what truly lies beneath. More than just skin, more than just this shell, I know I have more to give. But will others accept me? I know you ask this question again and again, trying to find the answer in anyone you can. But the men you waste your time with do not know what acceptance means. They can't give you the answers you need. Your friends are so wrapped up in their own problems, their own doubts, they don't have time to console you.
My message to you, Mrs. Lonelyheart, is not to give up. This is not a pity letter; these here words are that of love. I love you. I need you in this world. I appreciate the air you breathe because that air is mine as well. I give you hope, not because I have some to give, no. But because I find hope in everything around me. There is hope in the trees, as they sway, standing tall, just like we should. There is hope in the ocean, its vast expanse of life, roaring up to shore, washing away the solo set of footprints of which we have walked. There is hope in the stars, the same stars that I know billions of others, all around the world, view every night. That hope revives me, reminding me that happiness is possible. There is someone out there, standing under the same bright sun, who was made for me. Made for you. Made for us. And they will, some how, some way, some day, find us. They will resurrect all that has died within us, those butterflies we thought were gone for good. They will love us unconditionally, they will never judge, and they will make us feel safe, as safe as we deserve to be. They will hold our hearts in their hands and guard it as precious gems, as our hearts deserve to be guarded.
I am telling you to find your strength. In the little things that make you happy. In the bigger picture of life itself. You are not alone. You never will be. Because you have me.
I know you, Mrs. Lonelyheart. Because I am you. I am fighting for you. Because that means I am fighting for me. I am keeping my eyes locked on the sky, conversing with the stars, hoping you will hear my pleas. Because these times are excruciating. And when I feel like I am on the verge of collapsing to the earth from the exhaustion this world has laid on me, I talk to you. I know you can't hear me. I can hear me. And that's enough.
Though you may not know me, I am a complete stranger to you, I may not be as foreign to you as it may appear. I know you. I am you.
Sincerely,
Mrs. Lonelyheart
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