So there are these boxes on the bookshelf, and when I'm searching, I began taking them down. What did I put in these boxes? Why did I seal it with tape when I closed them up?

The most recent one isn't taped closed, so I open it, sitting in the middle of the floor. It contains letters that I've never sent to people. I remember filling up the other boxes, now, and sealing them when they could hold no more. I remember when I started making the boxes in the first place; back when I realized that the letters that I was mailing weren't being read. When I realized that the recipients of the mail didn't care enough to respond. I remembered that the first box had letters in it that I'd sent, but had been returned, back when I first began collecting the letters.

I still had to write them, though. You have to say things, not just sometimes, all times. You have to take the thoughts out of the ether, pulling them down from the sky like clouds or satellites or stars, examining them, and then apply them to the paper. Even when nobody's listening. The papers, the ink, they're there to help you get it all out.

I miss you

I love you

Don't go away

Don't come back

I hate you

I can't remember what your face looks like

You know how it is. Stages, relationships, friends, lovers, enemies. I wrote letters, some like lyrics, some like songs, and some like long run-on sentences that didn't make sense. Short and long letters, and folded them, sealed the envelopes, and then I placed them inside of these boxes.

Would you read them if I sent them your way? Would the things that I had to say to you a year ago, two minutes ago, would those things even matter to you? People, how I miss you, you lost parts of my past.

RETURN TO SENDER

The easiest and best way to avoid rejection is to not extend oneself at all. There is loss in this sacrifice, I know, reminded as I am sorting through the more recent past, all organized into tiny paper packets inside of a red cardboard box. But there is something not lost, as well, and that something, at times, seems much more valuable to me. I am too afraid that it will hurt again, even still, and so the risk is avoided by the creation of these mail boxes.

You don't remember how many times that I've tried. You don't know how many ways I've told you that I loved you. You can't see the millions of characters all calling your name, or the hours that have died in your honor. And all of those hours are kept in a box.

I look to the fireplace. I should destroy these. Some other time, that's what they are. Some other time that is lost.

I don't, though. I can't. It would be like destroying part of me, cutting it out of my soul, feeding it to the flames. Your flames consumed me enough. I am not strong enough for trying this again.