I am sure that my letter lays ready to be sent on the top of the beside table you have on the right side of your bed.
It’s like a small island of serenity in the middle of what we can easily call a full chaos. Books, papers, clothes, all across the room, they surround that small amount of light, the one that seems free of dust.
One day you found a straight path inside yourself that you decided to ride and so you wrote it, many weeks ago in one of those so common rainy days you have over there. After all this time has passed, you probably wouldn’t agree anymore so much with some part of the script, written in those first days where your memory was still fresh, and somehow, excited.
I could clearly see the tip of your ball point pen approaching the surface of the sheets, filled with lines written in a dark blue ink. And you, hesitating but wanting to strike out some words, and any sentence that makes no sense anymore to you, or so. But at the end of the page you will not have changed anything, because you trust yourself, anyway.
It’s a yellowish envelope but the paper inside is much more colorful even if it’s pastel colors.
You are a pastel color.
There is a big signature at the end with a small heart.
You are a big signature. And a small heart.
Lick the glue.
Put the stamp.