To Whom It May Concern

Today, it is a sunny Thursday morning in April, and my body aches like it does when a rainstorm hits, and I am regrettably bitter about it because in this very moment in time, I am still waywayway too aware of this world. My horoscope tells me that it’s about time to get rid of some of the baggage that I’ve been lugging all around town with me. But (apparently) I haven’t quite figured out where to put it all yet. And it’s times like these where I try to fool myself into thinking that I’m actually good at things – regular things that other people are especially and typically ordinarily good at. Like, writing poetry or scrapbooking, or bigger-deal-things like showing up to work on time. And I’ve been waiting to tell you this without blinking for once, and I’ve been actively searching for that relief everyone keeps saying is buried deep in that one place that’s also hidden underwater somewhere. So if you could feel the blood in my veins, you’d know what I mean. I’m anxious to feel the exact moment when the morning sunlight hits your cheek and your irises slowly dilate with the rhythm of your heartbeat, and I would memorize it all so perfectly, you would’ve thought it was just a simple feeling to give away. But it’s impossible to sneeze while keeping your eyes completely open and I may be just a little pessimistic about some stuff every now and again, and I know that it’s been a really long while since we’ve touched, but you still look the same to me.