I’ve realized when I’m stressed, or worried, or sad or depressed or anything else with negative connections to it, it’s easier to write. I think it all comes down to passion. If you have something passionate to say, you’ll spit it out all in one sentence but that sentence ends up being one of the best-constructed sentences ever. I look back at some of my darker days and read what was written. I think to myself,
“Man, I’m good. Man, This should really be published! Like, Damn!!!”
Other people say that, too.
A girl once said that I have a gift that most guys don’t have. The power to read girls minds, and able to communicate exactly what they need onto paper. It’s true. I do. Back in school – mostly in elementary school – I wrote tons of love letters.
I was so before my years.
While the girls I adored weren’t even thinking having a relationship at the time, I had already named our three kids, picked out a plot for our future dream house, planned our wedding at Canada’s Wonderland and made sure our parents were free on weekends to take care of the kids. The three page long gushy sob stories that should’ve been sold in variety stores – told the girl how much I loved them and how happy I would be if I were to take her out on a date. How the best part of the day is when I see them. Gay. I’ve changed.
I always looked back at these letters and wondered how I could’ve picked up a girl with the mush fest notes. Then I had a conversation with a girl. She had received one of the last letters I ever wrote. I was in grade 8. She in grade 7. We were catching up and talking about all the weddings and engagement parties we’ve been going to lately. Then, She blurted out that she had been cleaning out her room and she found one of these legendary notes. She had to read them. She almost cried. Back then; she said she never knew I how sweet it was. How real I was with what I wrote. How in-touch I was with girls. How good of a writer I was. She said that she had all the letters I ever wrote her. Funny how little notes you’d write in-between shows on Saturday afternoon would still affect peoples’ lives.
Back then when I wrote those letters, everything had passion behind it. Everything had a purpose and it was urgent. We thought the end would soon come and we had to find out if she likes me right away. No time to wait. We’re getting old fast.
Not that I don’t have passion or have a purpose or have something to say because I do. It’s just nice sometimes to dig up those old letters and see where those passionate moments came from and why I still write today. Not to her, but to you.
