What are these words, we write to ghosts. Each word inscribed may someday become unhidden. Distant thoughts and the fascination of philosophy of phrase and mind. What must we have known, to write what we did. How did we continually stumble over our own words. To stumble upon the ones that connected, to the you we will never meet.
Because I write this word, to someone who will never read. Not in this time and circumstance. A word that lacks accountable action from another. Simply commentary, emotion, in the moment story. That you won’t know I said. To you. Unsaid and released.
But it is written in my soul, in my lifetime, in my experience and philosophical development. What I will learn and teach about the world, my wants and desires, my love and loss, who I am and who I might aspire to be, all of these things are being said. What you have taught, changed the vision, touched with a look, all of these things are being said. The you to whom I write, you just won’t know, it’s you.
But someone else will. Someday. Read this word. Knowing it was not to them, not about them, not able to piece together the moments that were shared, missed or neglected. They will know it is commentary, emotion, in the moment story. To you. Not to them. That, they will know.
Which is why I won’t say your name, and you won’t remember mine. Because even though these words are for you, they will remain unsaid to you. Because even though this paragraph whispers to you, you won’t ever hear it. But it is being said. To them.
And the question is, to whom do I write, dear Diary. For whom are these words? Are they for me to blindly explore and heal with the spirits. Are they for you, captors of my stories, which will remain untold. Are they for them, who know not me or you, who are searching to stumble upon their own unsaid words.