Another Form of Escapism

i am tired of writing letters for the future, i wish to write letters to my present. everything i seem to partake in, promises escape. i think it is easily forgotten, that the me of today only lives for a day. i wonder what fascinates us so greatly about this concept of writing to a future us. is it the promise of a later, that entices the human mind? dear myself, remember to do this, remember to do that, forget this thing, and say goodbye to that, but you wont do any of these things, you will just pretend you have. i know you very well, and yet this version of you no longer exists, is it strange to mourn myself? the me that has wrote this has died, the me that will read this will suffer a similar fate. life seems to be a plethora of beginnings and endings, this letter is just another example of that. goodbye myself, try not to worry, another you will be over in a hurry.