All The Letters I Never Sent

In the top drawer of a dusty mahogany desk covered with sunlight and a plethora of unwritten drafts and mundane paperwork lie hundreds of letters I never sent. Where did they come from, then? From regret, of course, where else? They come from all the times I could have said something other than the right thing, for once, even once would have sufficed, but everything must be in its right place, and now, the words are stuck without a recipient, without stamps, without any purpose. But they linger. Yes, they continue lingering in some corner of my mind, floating about like little birds learning to fly diligently but not knowing what to do once they figure it out. They say we must always say things than not, so they do not weigh on us, that keeping it to ourselves, locked in our heart, makes it heavier than it needs to be, but for how long does one carry the weight until they forget it is weight they carry?

I take the pile out, and some stragglers, which were never bundled, and I toss them onto the desk with a thump. Then, I begin sifting through names I no longer recognise and addresses I no longer remember. One by one, I tear open the flaps, and out come pages, yellow and old, filled with rambling confessions. The ink has blotted on many; I cannot make sense of them anymore, but I know they carried something vital with them. Lost as their contents may be, their weight is not lost on me. All my honesty is reduced to unuttered, unshared reservations. Now, I sit here by myself, a second cup of coffee before ten, imagining how it would feel if they did exist and if it would change anything. And then, I think of what I want to be changed, and I cannot figure it out. All this has been a futile exercise.

Once again, I vow to myself to say what I want to say at all times, always. Once again, I am aware this will not happen. Some of us keep most of us to ourselves. We go about saying the right things, correct answers to questions no one asks, living with our heads held high for having done it properly. Done what? Living. But then, why do we carry the sawdust, the parts we stripped away? How could I ever tell you?

// if you want to support this walk to nowhere, you can pitch in here