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Tell them everything. confess your love. share your secrets, talk about your day, write like they'll respond when they're out of class or off of work or when they wake up. Write like they're still here. Tell them you miss them and something stupid reminded you of them.
Keep the letter, or burn it, crumble it into a ball, stuff it in a tree trunk.
But write the letter.
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Nothing is sweeter than spontaneous mail!! Go to your local post office, buy some stamps, sit down, monologue your current feelings/thoughts/ideas/drama/complaints on paper and send it off. If you're lucky, your friends will write you back and if you're like me, you can hoard every letter you've ever received and then read them back and revel in your own nostalgia.
Nov 3, 2023
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Hellooo what happened to romance?? Let me tell you something, if you write someone an honest and sincere love letter they will neverrrr forget you. Pour your heart out on a piece of paper or a lengthy email if your handwriting is bad. The only thing better than writing a love letter is receiving one and guess what if you never send them you might never get any ÂŊ\_(ã)_/ÂŊ
Apr 26, 2024
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and then folding it up and hiding it. or burning it if you're feeling frisky. you don't need to worry about what anyone else thinks, and now it's out of your body.
Mar 22, 2024
Top Recs from @winston
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AAAHHHH I'm learning CSS and HTML to design my own webpage (I'm also using sites like Caard and StrawPage) because I am obsessive with customization and journaling. I have a crippling Instagram addiction but I hate the app. This app seems more my style ð
Feb 8, 2025
I've never touched makeup before but I have this eye pencil thing and decided to doodle on myself. I like it.
Mar 14, 2025
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I've deleted Instagram. I'm stretching my ears. I'm making video diaries again. I write for myself only. I'm secluded, quiet, I'm grieving, I'm burying myself and I am being buried and I am attending the funeral. I'm alone in all of this.
It wasn't a new year resolution that led me here. It wasn't therapy or a fortune cookie or anything romantic. But I realize your story only matters if you plan on telling it to someone. Maybe as a response to something, "what the fuck is wrong with you?", maybe an intimate secret, maybe a drunken ramble. I'm done telling stories.
I've been alone for forever. Occasionally someone will drift too close, and I think maybe this time, maybe, maybe... And I'm left scarred, or left quietly, but always left.
Of course I have things to reflect on and things to take accountability for. But I'll be damned if I present my isolation as pure, as if I am a martyr. No, this is not for everyone's safety or my own digestibility. I am bringing the chisel down in sharp downward motions against myself again and again and and I will carve something new from this stone tomb. I'll never be David. I'll never be Michelangelo. But I can be something more than stone.
I am moving on. I don't know to where or to what end. It doesn't matter. Very little does, now. Maybe it always had such little meaning and I was just too close, to desperate, to see that. I wanted so badly to mean something. Even if it was just to be grieved. No one will miss me, now, as it's always been. But I also don't miss me.
Moving on.
Mar 26, 2025