An open letter to: I could never be open to

You know we had this class called “advising” in 8th grade where we wrote down our fears about the future anonymously and the teacher would read them out loud. After a few different ones, they said ok so most of you fear failure. That's when I realized so many things and words just mean failure. How poetic

I'm scared, let's get this out of the way. I'm scared it will never be enough. I'm scared of ruining it. I'm scared it's too late. I'm scared past present and future

A million things usually but now I'm scared of myself. Where is the navigation when you need it? Why is it every time you figure out something new a new unknown thing falls in your lap to be figured out? I'm going on a tangent (it's easier innit, to go in circles than be direct, why do we avoid confrontation… ugh again a tangent). I'm scared, I care. I always did don't get me wrong

And don't misconstrue my next few lines

I've always cared, a great deal and I hope it was evident if even once

But I care more now, I think. If blue is on your sheet then blue mine, red and red yellow and yellow. Our drawings look more similar than I would have imagined. Is there even anything original in mine

Where is the individuality, where is my flair

Am I losing myself, am I too influenced, or am I just being a normal empathetic being

I don't know and that's terrifying because out of three only one is an acceptable option and it's definitely not the first two.

Again the point here isn't me not wanting to see your paper but how it colours mine. There has to be a way to ensure it's the third.

What is it? What is it? What is it?

Is this what inconsequential daydreaming is? No matter how much you dream it has no effect in reality… most dreams don't when I think of it.

I don't think often, only inadequacies seem to pile up burdening my shoulders, or it could be my bad posture but I'm a writer, romanticizing sadness and finding it everywhere is my job.

I want to be unemployed but work gives my life meaning at least one thing I can do, not well anymore. No fancy metaphors no eye-catching imagery no tasteful alliteration.

Words on paper in hopes that someone will read this and hear me, in hopes that someone will hear me

Hypocrite coming when I'm a bad listener yet that's the way I feel is the best, tell me your story. Lest I taint it with my colours my inks my paints

I've already tainted this letter with shadows of irrelevance so ill cut it short, let it stay a stain and not the colour of the paper

From someone who shouldn't have written this open letter

-p