Dear December,
I'm going to try and write happy for you today. Try, here, is the key word.
I practiced for roughly two? three? hours today--roughly. Time is weird when I'm playing: either it passes to quickly or to slowly, usually without me noticing. Time changes when it's kept with a metronome instead of a clock.
Does that sound sad? Everything I write has a fleeting feeling that I can't place the mood of. Happy? Sad? Ironic? Satirical? You and I, we'll never know.
People say my writing is like a tidal wave or beautiful or good, and it throws a wrench in the cogs of my heart and makes it pump out more soft, impractical words. Sometimes I feel like my writing is all style and no substance. When will I begin writing stories, December, with real people and emotions beyond the fanciful ones of skinny-wrists and chunky sandal-wearing aesthetic I see on screens, but never in real life? Where do all those photos on Tumblr come from? I haven't seen a pair of Doc Martens on feet of flesh and bone since I visited my dad's family last year. Maybe there's warehouses full of quirky aesthetics like the sound rooms where they make exaggerated movie noises, but instead of recording, it's the flash! click of the cameras.
Mhm. Style isn't everything, but when I'm writing letters to no one, it sure counts.
YOU ARE READING
dear december
Non-FictionContinued from last month's Dear November letters. A little less angsty, a little more poetic. Originally done on Polyvore, by @writingtips' and @smileylina 's suggestion, who got the idea from Youtuber Carrie Fletcher's series 'Letters to Autumn'.
