In this age of e-mails,
I wrote you a letter. I just found it
a couple of days ago. I wrote it,
then forgot about it. The letter was
never sent, yet I expected
a reply. I, who like everyone else,
only check e-mails,
wrote a letter recently.
It’s not a suicide note
or a diary-confession, nor a love letter.
It’s a conversation with my destiny, with myself,
a message to Providence, to the future.
My letter is unclear, rambling, and incomprehensible
to anyone else. I can’t write well
about important things.
I’ve already forgotten what I wrote in it.
I crumpled it up but did not throw it away.
I straightened it again and stashed it somewhere, so that
it might surprise me again
on some future day, when
I would rummage through my drawers and shelves.
Maybe then will I find out that my wishes
for peace, joy, and meaning penned there
have already come true, or that with time
they’ve become meaningless. I remember
my handwriting, but not the words. The letters
are legible and elongated. There are like moods
one gets when one throws out old things, and such,
when one does not feel like it. They pile up
in the cellars, attics, and in my sub-consciousness
where the past is re-examined.