Your Humble Narrator

Dear Stranger,

Isn't this funny? Otherworldly, to an extent. In a culture and society where stranger's bodies constantly graze one another in accidental miscalculations of personal space, yet their minds are as far away as the deepest opposites of the corners of the universe. Or so it seems at times. Yet here you are. Accepting this letter. And here I am. Writing it. To a stranger I know I will get no reply from, nor know anything about. It creates a confidential freedom between us, won't you agree? It is precisely for this reason, for this candid environment that I write. It is this I lack. And desperately year for. A connect. Beyond judgement.

I don't have much to say, really. I use to. When I thought I was on the verge of some kind of pinnacle moment or idea. Not anymore. I'm not so familiar with life anymore. I hardly ever feel a sense of urgency. We choose for ourselves the rules we live by. Knowingly or unknowingly, whether we would like to admit this or not. I just don't know what to choose. So I live among the rest. Making a living. doing what interests me - if it's anything at all. I have many, but lately more of them seem to matter. I've been feeling this way about mostly everything, including our own lives. Compared to the span of endless time and space nothing we do now matters one bit. Yet it's a collective. So, somehow it must. Now this feels like a journal entry rather than a letter.

How do you choose what to do? And why do you do it? This is what my mind burns to know, from everyone. Fear constitutes so many people's lives. Fear of having no money - so they work a job they hate. Fear of rejection - so the stick to what's comfortable, wading around in the same muck for years. This is not the way it should be. This should not be a worthy life. Despite struggle over finding meaning, purpose in their lives. I say there is no purpose of existing other than to simply exist. So why not enjoy nature and all it's fruits and stop worrying? If we all did this, we wouldn't have to worry. But we live in interesting times. People need help. I know I do. But I want to help more than anything. I just don't know how. Or even who. Most simply don't want to help.

So I'm stuck here. Writing my frustrations to a stranger. Being pushed around in circles by my own whirlpool. Then I fall back in exhaustion and remind myself to keep it simple, and stick to the very moment I'm in, until opportunity arises. So what's the point of me writing this? There is no point, naturally. Just to keep energies in motion. Pass around some theories. Create to do what's natural and instinct - to connect to a stranger. Since we're living, we might as well live how we wish to. And do plenty of good. What else do you really have to do?

Your humble narrator,

Anonymous

P.S. - I'm terrified. The only thing I'm certain of is the uncertainty of this life. I truly believe in the words I write in this letter. But sometimes I wish I didn't. I wish there was an answer to it all. To stop the suffering. The doubting. The madness. Where one day I'll wake up and figure it all out. It's as if I feel the pain of the world. I wish there was a way to life this burden.

(This letter came with a sheet of stamps, which I  just ran out of the day before... Thank you humble narrator. Sometimes even small seeming things can be a huge help.)