because I think that people need to be honest

. . . I'm starting to find it kind of amusing that every week I write you two letters. The first letter is saturated in thought, anguish, frustration, fear, anxiety, anger, and all other not-so-uplifting emotion. The second letter always ends up just being a list - somewhat distant, but informing.

I can't seem to send the first letter because letters themselves are of an ambiguous nature. There is so much that happens that you can't get down . . . and time as it passes seems to stir the pot so that that moment captured on paper stands overstated and embarrassing. Brad Arnold sings "Staring back it seems so much different than it did in front of me". . . which is how I feel after writing the first letters to you. I dump all those feelings on the page, heavy like wet clothes. And the coldness of dramatic repitition makes my cheeks turn red and I crumple them up and put them in the trash. There is just so much in the word 'life' for me right now - - - sometimes I'm elated with the status of things, other times I'm overwhelmed, tired, and so frustrated. I swing back and forth, back and forth, as the wind whistles through the marrow in my bones . . .