Open Letter to the Person I Forgot

Hey. I remember you. I can’t remember what I did, or why it was terrible, but I remember it. I remember I made a promise, a long time ago, that I was going to do the best I can to make the world a better place. I wonder sometimes, did I live up to your expectations?

The logical part of me knows that this memory I have of you is just a hallucination, that the event that is a fuzzy buzz in my head never happened, and that everything was just an excuse to keep on keeping.

But, the funny thing is, the older I get, the more real that memory seems. I don’t remember your face, or your voice, or your name, or the events that surrounded us. But I remember that promise.

Whenever I try to kill myself, I ask, “Have I done enough to make up for it?”

Yet, I never know what ‘it’ is. I just know that ‘it’ is whatever I did that forced me to make that promise in the first place, and that ‘it’ was something horrible, the greatest sin ever made. For some reason, I never seem to be able to do enough to make amends, so I postpone dying another day.

I used to like standing on the ledges of tall buildings. The wind always calmed me. Now, I don’t trust myself enough to not jump. When I look over an edge, I lose my senses, as if my mind separates itself from my body, and if I only followed, I can find peace.

It always hurts when I try too hard, and sometimes, when I’m tired, I feel my heart tearing away from within. I’m constantly reminded, that when I needed it the most, when I was hurting without end, no matter how much I stood out, no one ever came looking.

Even now, when I can help people, when I’m more connected to the world than ever, when I move to the next ledge, I’m still alone. Alone with my thoughts, hundreds upon thousands of voices, screaming in the recess of my mind.

I keep writing. And I keep writing. I try to quiet the noise, but they never seem to stop, so I channelled that. I’m trying to do more good, and, hopefully, one day, when I ask the question, you will say yes.

Some people think I’m writing for attention. That’s not true. Neither is it true that I write for fame and fortune. I write because I promised you, a person that never existed, in a world that never happened, a long, long time ago that has yet to pass, that I was going to be a good person.

But I am tired. Because the happiness I share the best I can. The good I give as much as I have hands to pass on. But the melancholy, the distorted emotions, the ones that peck and claw within me, those I keep alone.

One day, when I ask, “Have I done enough?”

You will reply, “Yes.”

Maybe then, the punishment will end, and the pain will stop. Maybe then, when I sleep, I will stop dreaming of the promise I never made.

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