I can feel that cold breeze move past me while I'm trying to just sit down and write something (anything) in this cafe you work in. I'm not sure why winter's still here, or even why we were running from it for so long. I can't seem to embrace this face winter in the face of the southern hemisphere spring. I like truth, not shams. I come to just sit near you because it makes me feel less alone. I don't wear makeup anymore. I think it's more beautiful. I see fear on all those faces, and I don't get fashion. I can feel my mind work as a whirlwind and that's the only way I can think enough to write, when it's pushed forward by overwhelming thoughts that couldn't stop if I tried, fingers with a mind of their own. And that mind I'm not sure where it came from (the three cups of coffee) but it works. Writing is funny because sometimes it drips out of you and other times it's like being dehydrated. Dried up. Nothing left.
This part of a letter is all I've got:
"I've been talking to MacKenzie a lot about living in a different reality when you're far away. Like all those things people are saying to you are no more real than a book you're reading. You think of this weird movie in your head and try to imagine what they're thinking or feeling or what these characters in their story could possibly look like but you really don't know. Yours is the weirdest to read. I have no idea what you're actually seeing and it sounds so far from reality to read that I can only imagine what it's like in real life. Probably...just like...real life. Standing there, experiencing it, believing it because it's real and happening and there's no escaping what's going on all around you. Anyway, weird."
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