I write to you not under the pretense of fear or eagerness, but with a hesitant uncertainty. As a naturally opinionated person with an instinct for both fight and flight, I feel as though I should have an opinion of your nearness, yet I am frightfully indifferent. As I write this, AJ Rafael sings his rendition of Sara Bareilles’ “Gravity”, saying he “doesn’t want to fall another moment into your gravity”. Perhaps this is how I feel about you. Maybe the coming of a fresh, new year should have no affect on me, because life must continue and being pulled into the excitement of the new year only pulls me away from the present. In February I will have finally put 16 at the end of the date on my notes, and then I will have realized that I was so caught up in becoming a new person that I have forgotten to live. This is not what I want. I want my life to be free and filled with thrills and thoughts, not focused on the person I should, and for some stupid reason, want to be.
But on the other hand, I want to be caught up in the frivolous portions of life that many of my peers encounter true bliss in. I am 15 years old; I want to feel free and get caught up in everything because it is all so beautiful. I cannot find true beauty without being lost in the madness, for madness makes everything seem so real and emotional. The more I think about you, I realize I have allowed life to steamroll me. It rolls over me time after time, and I stop to look at its fierce underbelly and find the happiness, but that is all. Events come and go, rolling over me, and I just take it. Maybe I should throw myself on top of the steam roller. Then I could feel the real pain instead of a numbed, slight tug of emotion and be able to look life straight in the face.
I hope you took note of all the maybe’s I have used in this letter. As you’ve probably guessed, I’ve become much too uncertain for my own good. This must be fixed. Rebecca Lewis is not an empty girl; that’s not just who I am. So, to you, I ask you to throw whatever you can in my direction. I’ll take it all, but this time, I’ll try my best not to be steamrolled. I can’t promise, because change is as slow as the elderly woman driving the Buick in front of you in traffic when you’re in a rush, but I will do everything in my power to look life right in the face when you hurt me. Hurt is inevitable; I accept it. What I refuse to accept is that I will never feel the true ache of chronic heartache. To live. I must hurt, so I ask you to throw whatever you can my way. It’s time I lived a little.