Bookmark #685

To whom it may concern,

I leave this hastily written letter and all my words in hands I trust.

I began writing this barrage of prose on a whim, like how I do everything. When it is the end of the day, when the work is slowly subsiding to the edge of my mind, a parallel to the setting sun outside, I often decide to take a walk. Now, I do not plan to go to the coffee shop on most days, and often, I stand outside the gates to the patio and decide whether I should stop for a cup of coffee or let it be. On most days, I stop for coffee. In many ways, these words have been like any of those walks; like most of them, there is now a decision to make. Before I pass the building by, and it is too late to go back, I must make a stop. I must leave things as they are, and I must get a bit of rest. That is what I plan to do for some time—to lay under the sun, to live a life, and to let time happen to me in its own way. I seem to have said all I have to say for now, at least how I tend to say it.

Now, I must wait for either of them to change. It is an age-old adage, after all, that change is good. We must reinvent ourselves now and then, lest it all get a bit stale. It seems I have found my proverbial coffee shop, and I must stop for a moment and take stock of where I am and where I want to go—which is always more important. I shall sip my days away and not have a word to say about them. At least, for a little while, I hope. Breaks are awfully scary, after all. You think you will take a week or two; before you know it, a decade has passed.

But then, for how long can a writer live without writing? Not long, I reckon. Not long at all.

For now, however, I must live this wonderful, beautiful life I have built.