Dear [...]

Dear Luke

Dear Luke,

In all honesty, you are the reason I'm writing all this down. As much as I hate it, I rely very highly on (and am quite good at) lying. They seem so innocent when I say them, but they build up, bricks in a wall keeping me from everyone else. It's for someone's good, I'm certain (I'm quite reasonable, and don't make habit of doing things that aren't helpful or needed. Well, on purpose, at least.) but sometimes I'm unsure if it's for others, or myself. There are a lot of things in this world that are quite frightening, quite annoying, quite... negative. It's complicated to explain, and I'll save it for a different letter, this is a different story. Not story, more like letter, something real(er).

I'm getting sidetracked though, sorry. I was talking about why I'm writing this. I'm sorry, I keep getting off topic, nasty habit, it is. As I've told you, I write letters a lot, instead of a diary. It seems to be more of an accomplishment to me, because I don't see the point of writing to a book. Instead, I write letters to people (and then never give the letters an opportunity to be read by the person they're for, because I want them to have purpose.

Besides people I know, I do write to emotions. I didn't tell you that because I didn't want you to think I was too crazy. Because I'm not... at least I don't think I am. Though in fairness, what sane person stays up at midnight to write letters that will never be read. Christ, he was right. It does sound bad when you really think about it...

I'm going to try to write this the way I'd talk to you, okay? Rapid-fire, without really processing each thing, just writing as it comes to me. So forgive me if it is too dicey or weird, that isn't at all my intention, but thought travels so fast, I can't quite keep up enough to finish each though properly. Sometimes things will bleed into each other, or not get written down, and you might be left confused. I'm sorry about that. I hope you understand.

I write to various emotions, but mostly the ones I have issues with. I haven't really told you this yet, but sometimes I go through just days of numbness spiked with panic making for splashes of red onto a rather beige life. I never liked red, though. It's connotated with so many things that are negative. Anger, stress, blood, general chaos. I don't really like those things. I write to these emotions with various things. Questions, my own answers and experiences, whatever comes to mind.

Like I told you though (at least I think I did), I also write to celebrities. I kind of lied about why, though. I'd never write to like, Beyonce, or Bruno Mars to tell them I love their music or anything. It's kind of different than that. I write to artists who sound like they get it. It being whatever is going on in my head. From the black clouds, to the storms, all over mausoleums of happy memories. Damage is becoming a problem though, I'm worried that one day the building will fall bringing my mind into a wasteland, no traces of the beauty which once resided within... I'm sorry. Off track, again. I write to those celebrities to see how they got through it. To ask them how to lose this part of me, or at least make it smaller.

If I sent this to you, I bet you wouldn't understand that line. But then again, I know you'd try, and you'd question. You always do. You are a fantastic person, who I can't always talk to. As are all of the people I write to. In all simplicity, that is why I write to people, or things. Because I can't always (if ever) talk to them. So that's that. I suppose this is the end of the letter, Luke. I'm sorry for being so strange. I hope this will clarify everything. I feel like things have been getting murky between us. You're drifting into a wild sea, but frankly I prefer the calm of land. Maybe one day we can find a way to talk at the shore.

Sincerely,

Ashton