A hundred pictures snap all at once, a cacophony of shutters closing. The birds look around, alert and quiet. The world stops breathing, for a moment.
I am sitting at my desk, staring at my home. It is decorated with memories of pumpkins, of loud music, of a joyous jump into the unknown. The balcony door is cracked open just a little and the slivers of wind makes the curtains sway slightly.
There is a jittery energy in this space, I think, like all the things want to be moved and to be lived in and it be felt. I want to explore each and every nook and cranny of this space, I think. It is such a small space, I think.
And so is the cottage by the river, I hear.
I read the letters I wrote myself. I read them and I weep. I have written letters to myself, from the past and the future. I remind myself of the little things -
be brave, take the chance, follow your heart, accomplish those dreams, wipe your tears, heal yourself.
And then, the not so little things,
remember that you must remain kind even if the world is being unkind.
And sometimes people disappear into the background of their lives and slip away from you, and that’s okay.
And also, Who is worth running into the void for?
I neatly fold each letter, each memory, each prediction and seal it back in its box.