Dear John who’s name was never John,

I feel my heart heavier than the coal stuffed in the Christmas stockings of children who’d misbehaved. I too, not decently mannered. Telling lies inadvertently through sin of omission and writing stories neither in full agreement or alignment of my real life.

Then, the past, no longer in alliance with my feelings today, right now, in present.

I, reading back pieces no longer attached or emotionally disturbed in regards to that of which has fallen out of my hands control. As a writer I have made my readers a promise that I will always be honest, even at the cost of my own reputable reputation. So that said, admittedly I must say, I still have very intense and deep sorrows over what seems to have been just yesterday spilled milk. Almost a year later, and the most fitting and comparable analogy I can think of, is one where I compare my once, very intense pain and emotions to that of a healed scar. Still visibly surfaced, just in no degree as painful as the initial wound.

One where the trauma of the fall is now but a faded memory I chose to push back in my memories reserve of a time not too long ago, where I was in some what good standing with you. One where that of my good standing, as short-lived as this very experience.

Oh John, I wonder if you realize how much you or this has taught me? Often late, I wonder if it was you or the experience that has taught me more?

With all fairness of all the time I have imputed in contemplation of this series of unfortunate events, I can honestly say it is both. All your mannerisms subdued and in small doses of genuineness exuding  from the far enough distance you always kept from me.

While in said contemplation, thoughts of all I have barred and burdened you with additionally working in alliance to flood my head. Making my heart bleed out in pain. Filling my soul with an empty feelings and sorriness. My soul, ah yes, empty. No longer am I holding knowledge of what or who has previously filled the contents of it with love or in this case, much like.

I now, still alone but not so much confused. Instead I’ve grown and now I can say I understand how and why all that has unfolded in the manner it has. For I always wished it different from what it’s become. Still now and again finding myself upset shedding tears in cause of the discomfort I’d unknowingly in real-time caused you. Constantly replaying all of it in my head.

Atlas, with almost a year marked on the calendar, my heart unchanged in feeling. Yet everything around me different, the time, date and most noticeably, you. You no longer around and I, well I’ve been here, typing this story. The year has aged me and forcing on growth, just as the flowers in the garden in which I most vividly recall from that one afternoon all the way back just last July.

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