To Whom It May Concern:
I’ve lost it. Some may say I’ve lost my mind, my grip, my control. That I’ve lost my touch with reality, or my sense of being. Well, I don’t know what “it” is, but I’m definitely sure it’s gone. I’m not sure I ever had it to begin with, so maybe I can’t really say that it’s lost. It’s nonexistent. That works better. Now if only i could fix my life as easily as I fix misplaced or wrongly used words. I’ve been told to talk to someone, so can attain “it”, but I’d rather send letters to no one. Their responses are usually enough for me to handle, silent agreement. It works much better for me than looking deep into my childhood where the supposed roots of all my problems exist, well at least that’s what my last doctor said. She said something about how I tend to ignore all my problems and live in a world that I built for myself, and that I don’t let anybody in. I said that at least I don’t sleep with my patients. She wasn’t amused. She was wrong anyway, I let many people in, I just don’t know any of their names. I stopped going to her. I didn’t call or anything, I just stopped showing up to appointments. This is the 30th letter I’ve written to whom it may concern. I just drop them off in a mailbox on the corner. I imagine that my letters travel to far reaches of the world, bringing pieces of me with them. But I know that they just end up at the bottom of piles of mail with no addresses printed on the front. One day I’ll receive a large bundle of letters with “Return to Sender” stamped onto each and every white envelope. Then I’ll sing Elvis to myself as I look for my pen and my yellow legal pad so as to fill the yellow paper and red lines with more words of insane thoughts and feelings, writing to another no one, hoping that one day I might get a response from a someone.
Your run-of-the-mill lost soul who’s just trying to find their place