They say that writing letters is healing. You are told to write letters to your younger self. Letters to ease your conscience. Letters to let go. But when you feel you need to write a million letters, to right a million wrongs or sing a million songs, where do you start? For you know, it is fruitless. Those letters you need to write either cannot or will not be read.
You cannot write to the dead.
You cannot pour out your heart to the dying.
You cannot right the wrongs of the past for the past is gone.
And how many days and how many years of pain, of loss, of grief and anger and release can you really put on paper? Does it heal or does it hurt? For the risk of causing further pain and further grief is too much. My pain I can bear; it is the pain I may cause others that I cannot.
Where do you start when there are a million letters? A million letters scattered across the world, in bottles, on pigeons or angels wings. They have so far to travel. They have so much to say.
And I tell myself those million letters will fall on deaf ears. For burned and spurned ears are closed and righteously prejudicial. I tell myself that it is a pointless task; meaningful yet at the same time, meaningless task. Again a duality occurs. A split. Always a Grand Canyon of my reality versus the worlds.
Work through pain; re-live pain; sort through the pain, I must I know. But oh so hard this challenge is with words containing both sense and non-sense. Feelings, feelings always feelings. Structure, boundaries, logic are all but forgotten remnants among the blackened shards of self …
Build a new me, a good me, a me of worth and let the me I despise so much evaporate into the ether. Yet those poisoned droplets of self let loose to be absorbed by the universe may contaminate the beauty of the world, for at times I feel like a disease. So I put myself in quarantine, I shove those I love and want and need and desire away for my darkness I do not want to share and taint what is so precious and light and beautiful and life-giving, for that is need and need is greed and selfish and selfish is bad.
But what if those million letters brought solace? Solace and understanding; compassion instead of derision? Understanding instead of acrimony; forgiveness instead of recrimination.
So one day I must write those million letters to a million souls and cast them to the breeze, for my letters are akin to those like me; our broken, fractured screaming, loving, needy selves. So if you receive our million letters, please read them, please hear us for those million letters borne on the breeze are born of love.
Love; kindness; compassion; forgiveness acknowledgement of our faults and understanding of yours. Those are things that not only the broken among us, but the whole who hold us need to receive.
A million letters from the heart; a million letters from the soul; a million letters of love; a million letters of apology; a million letters of understanding and wisdom and forgiveness; a million letters for two million ears. Open heart letters for open heart souls.
A million letters not of blame but a million letters of gratitude; a million letters to heal the wounds and the rifts of the world.
Please read our million letters.