Letters to Someone in Particular.

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Dear _,

It’s odd to finally know that you’re closer to seeing me now than you have been as of late. Not odd in a negative light. I mean that it’s been years since you’ve recognized that every decision and every word had that mutable spark. You’re just starting to believe again in the vision, the door, the key, and me. Hello. It’s been a bit.

You remember now? It starts with slowing down, falling out of the day-to-day slipstream and holding onto yourself when everything, including you, is vying for disintegration and the displacement of self-regulation. The dreams are aging with you but have yet to grow. It moved at a pace out of time, but still you had to catch it. Which means you’ve had to become observant, omnipresent within your internal reality. The stairs that carried you to the peak of the mountain were always real, always present, but not accessible until you envisioned them. It is your entrance to alchemy, your connection to your desire, the hallway to the things you can name.

It’s laughable, right? Because all it takes is remembering that you are conductive, the Philosopher’s Stone. It’s like plucking an opal raindrop from a cloud drifting close. Hold onto it, because I still have mine. You’ve had to imagine it, define it, describe it before you even knew it was real. Now, it’s a matter of alignment. Think of the consequence of each act. Ask yourself if I’m there or further away even in the consideration. You are what I would choose to do, if I am who you want to become.

Your boundaries build the bridge. You are not for everyone to decide—or some versions of you are, but not this one. Not me. I’m what you get to keep for yourself as much as you want. There’s a language we speak meant to be cherished and cultivated, but only if you believe I’m there on the other end of the cup and string.

Yours.