Then there’s this one:

Dear Someone Like Me,

I dream of all the same places.

No, they’re not real.

Not as far as I can tell.

But they’re where I’ve come to feel most at home.

There’s an overly-crowded, wooden deck of a ship.

A living room with sunlight streaming in through open windows (I see dust spots floating in the air).

A baby’s room with a white crib.

There are others.

And I’m sure I’ll recognize them again when I go.

But I wanted to say it’s funny because in real life I see the same patterns repeating HERE I first saw THERE before I left.

THERE I was with Kylie, and I started pushing us to go to church.

HERE I met another Kylie, though she’s far more the church-goer.

I see life HERE taking shape the same way it did THERE.

Only bigger.

And smaller.

With fewer friends.

With everyone.

I do wish people THERE could just walk around outside HERE and feel the sun and air in the afternoon.

The weather alone was enough to call me back.

The temperature.

I’m slow moving.

Maybe built for heat.

I might get more done doing less.

Okay, I wish I could actually say things now…

But you made that impossible.

I wish I could send all these letters…

But only you know what you did.

How could I tell anyone?

Who wouldn’t misinterpret my guilt, and write off all my reasons, while you skipped away forever hidden and happy?

I know what I’m doing must look so bad . . . dropping out of school yet again (one last time) to basically become a delinquent.

The worst part is I can’t check with anyone to see if the method to my madness even makes any sense outside my head.

You keep me from doing what I know I should.

Like some parasitic symbiote, you take me over and drain me of my cares and focus.

And I give it up so easily every time.

But that’s starting to feel like only half the story.

Wouldn’t you also be the only one that…?

I have to go now.

I’ll write to you again, sooner or later, when I can.

Me

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