Someone wrote this to me once :

“you,

have i told you lately that you are amazing & fascinating ? i hold your bravery in writing those thoughts & feelings out in very high esteem. i know that i struggle often with believing that i’ll be seen as ridiculous & melodramatic & too much, and it prevents me from telling the truth, prevents me from letting it out. do i sound like oprah yet? it’s only going to get worse. just wait!

you are sea horses, the magic dust of a flea market, a favorite worn blanket. you are page 119 (empatically dog-earred) , a bicycle, a window left open and the air that’s tossed through and into bed. you are skies made of crepe paper, worthy and beautiful and strange and new. you remind me of many things, all of them perfect and utterly unique (imperfect and in that way, flawless) & so i can’t say that i don’t have my own interests in mind as i write this letter. i don’t know you well enough, yet, perhaps not very well at all, but enough to see the shorelines and the nebulae, & from what i know, i know that i want you , alive and well, in my life, in some form, & i very very much want your happiness. my favorite people are often the ones who struggle through the world , & i wonder all the time why that is. perhaps it’s simply because beauty IS depth, and depth is inevitably sadness and despair. it’s also hope and joy and each twisting road winds in and out of the other with little rhyme or reason, and i know that this email is just a bunch of run-on sentences that i should really pare down and edit and fix and pretend that i’m something i’m not, but i won’t because that’s not fair, and the point is that you may not be able to see it right now, but you’ll feel better, eventually (and hopefully sooner than later) . let me know if i can help. i won’t and don’t feel bothered, & sometimes we are allowed to be selfish with the people in our lives. there’s nothing that excepts you from that rule.”

I think I’ll look her up again.