Just moments before I sat down to write this, I was cleaning out my room. A winter-clean, if you will. De-cluttering. Both my living space and my mind.
I came across a letter that I had completely forgotten I had ever written. Even looking at it, I can’t conjure up the memory of sitting down to write it. If it wasn’t unmistakably my handwriting, I would’ve thought it had been something misplaced.
It was so, incredibly fitting to come across it today. It read:
My dearest 23 year old me,
Please tell me you are happy. That not long after your 22nd birthday, you got the courage to change what was no longer making you happy. Maybe you’re not in a relationship yet but I hope you’ve found out how to love yourself again. That your heart doesn’t hurt anymore.
God I hope you’re happy. Cause I’m really, really not. I feel so fucking alone right now.
No matter where you are in life at the moment, things always change.
Living and breathing example.
23 year old me.
24 year old writer, just trying to find her way through the world through words and funny anecdotes.