Dear _____,

I’ve been thinking a lot on why I’m writing these to you, the purpose behind it and how the words end up coming out. It leads to a lot of erasing and rewriting, followed by self-doubt and then reassurance that what comes out on the page is significant. But I’m sometimes left with another thought: what’s to say that you haven’t encountered these same words, thoughts, sentiments elsewhere? Maybe you’ve read something similar in the pages of a book. Perhaps you find yourself writing something nearly identical in your own journal. What if these words are echoes of thoughts and feelings you’ve had yourself, brief blips in your mind that ruminate before fading back into the background?

Thinking of it that way, it’s very easy to get caught in the spiral of “is anything I write/think/feel original?” – what’s to say these words I write haven’t been written already or won’t be rewritten in another life by another person? That loop is one of the worst traps I find myself in when I sit down to write to you. I start to wonder whether it even matters what I put here. I’m left staring at the paper for minutes of silence, of inaction, second-guessing myself. It’s hard, maybe you know what I’m talking about if you’ve ever done something like this.

But then I have another thought: what if within each of us exists the same mantra, the same assortment of words and letters that get expressed one way or another? The words we write, the thoughts we think, the feelings we feel – sometimes they are cut from the same experiences we happen to all encounter at one point or another. Perhaps then it’s reassuring that others have the same feelings and thoughts that we do – it’s proof that we all share something in the lives we live.

Thinking about this, I then go back to one of my earlier questions I asked myself – if we’ve all had a version of these same feelings and thoughts, does my contribution and perspective expressed here really matter? Does it matter whether I provide my own experiences and words to you, to others? I mean… I’d like to think so… I’d like to hope so. Each action taken, step strode forward, gesture given freely – it all amounts to something, regardless of who it comes from. They’re little repetitions, echoed throughout our shared lives. Sometimes they’re beautiful, other times devastating. Because it’s messy. Because even if we all within us feel traces of the same thing, we may not go about the feeling the same way. The words may be written in ink, lead, or through a screen. Perhaps the words are temporary, floating in and out of our minds, sometimes to be recorded and other times completely lost. It’s the variety, the differences we all share that make these experiences worth it, that can offer each of us something new if we choose to share them. So maybe that’s why they matter. Maybe that’s why this isn’t a waste.

But what do I know? That’s the thing: all of this is speculation, at the end of the day. I still only know my words and my thoughts. I’d like to think we all share shreds of the same experience, but I don’t actually know that. I never will. We never will. Not unless we take the time to share these thoughts, feelings, and words, regardless of whether they feel original or not. Sometimes we need the courage to give them to the world in the hope that they go somewhere. Only then, when we share these things with each other, do we give others the chance to empathize with what we’ve collectively gone through and open the door to some sort of connection.

At least, that’s what I hope to do here.

Originally written 30-07-2025

Accompanying music: Qi by Yvette Young