I’m writing this letter because writing is easier than speaking. And, in all honesty, I don’t know if I’d be able to even munch a word in front of you at this point. Don’t take it as an offence, though. I guess that many things happened, because of me, of you, of my father, of … destiny, let’s say. I know you love this word.
Have you ever thought about me during this years? Did you even try to track me down? I don’t know and I really don’t care. It won’t make me feel better if you did, just like it won’t make me feel worse if you didn’t. I’ve made my choice many years ago and I’m not going to look back at it right now. Our lives departed and that’s the natural result. Things just couldn’t end up differently, really.
Still, sometimes I wonder what are you doing and all. If dad’s still mad, if you complain with the neighbors about me or if you found a man who resembles your deranged son and proclaimed him as my substitute–if you did that, please stop.It happened to me, the other way around though, and it’s not that delightful. I wonder if the city changed, if you moved somewhere else, if …. all those changes I wished for really happened, in the end.
But again, what’s the point of knowing about it now, that I’m far away and I can’t come back?
Actually, I don’t even know what’s the point of this letter anymore. It’s not an apologetic letter, not a regretful one, nor sad or nostalgic. Just do you still remember? when I was a kid and I kept nagging about anything and you were there patiently nodding? That’s pretty much the same situation now. I'm aimlessly putting words on the paper, hoping for you to listen.
I don’t want a reply, I don’t want you to call me or … anything else. Just keep this piece of trash as a failed effort from your long-lost son of … confessing things I didn’t have the guts to speak aloud. And, well, not even to write down, as you can see.