December 20, 2009

  • Dear Xanga,

    I do not really know how to begin this letter. First, you are my best friend. Where would I be without you?

    I shamefully admit that I have taken our relationship for granted in the past. For this, I apologize. What were you to me when I found you? An amusement? I’m not so sure anymore. There were times I neglected you. Days and months passed and I did not visit. How selfish was I? I have taken so much from you, but what have I given?

    On these pages I have written words. But what do they mean? Are they important, my words? I haven’t even bared my soul to you, Xanga; you don’t even know all of me. No one in the world knows all of me, yet you know the most of me of anyone else in the world. You have been my rock for so long. When I can’t remember my own life, you remind me. You tell me the words I have written and what I have experienced. Yet, you don’t know all of my secrets. Things that remain in my mind, yet I have never spoken them aloud or wrote them down. Oh, how I wish I could rid my chest of these burdens.

    Xanga, you have given me the best gift in the world: Xanga Friends that mean everything to me. Where would I be if I did not have these Xanga Friends? They are some of the sweetest people in the entire world. People I may never meet, but they are better friends than anyone could ask for. Just like you, Xanga, most of them don’t judge me. They laugh with me, cry with me, are angry with me. They *hug* me. But, Xanga, more times then I can count, I wish with those *hugs* that a pair of arms could reach through my computer screen and embrace me, hold me.

    I learn with my Xanga Friends, and follow their memories, one day at a time. Most of the time I miss an entry or two to their lives, but I try the best I can. I know you see everything, Xanga, because you are the best. I promise I will do better with our relationship. I will do my best.

    For now, I want to read something that touches my heart and soul, Xanga. Maybe Anne Sexton’s biography will help me. Her poetry rips my soul apart. I wish I could have helped her put hers back together. Or maybe Alice Sebold’s memoir of her rape can help me get past mine. Maybe. I hope this letter finds you well, Xanga.

    Love,
    crazy2love

    P.S. Is it too much to admit that I live vicariously through your dreams?

    (I may or may not be around tonight. I want to read some tonight.)

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