It’s time for another one! Enjoy! And let me know what you think. This is the first time I’ve addressed two letters to the same stranger!

If you missed the first one (To You, Who Is Really Me) check the letters page above and familiarize yourself with the series.

To You (Who is Me?),

The pulse of change is vibrating through my entire being. Now I know that letters to you accompany it. The first time I wrote, you had appeared like a freight train, barreling through my head, taking out every thought in your path. Mass destruction. The most beautiful and difficult kind I have ever endured. Nevertheless, something has changed for good. That vibration. That pulse. It’s constant and invigorating. My body is my own, my thoughts clearly defined, my actions directed forward like the train. But, now I am the conductor, not a passenger. I know where I am heading. I can catch my breath and each molecule of air galvanizes my heart.

At this moment I am sitting on the beach. There are retirees strung along the shore manning fishing poles and I am at peace with my surroundings. The sand, coarse and speckled, is gathering between my toes, my corduroys are rolled up around my calves, the sun is beating against the back of my neck, and the ocean is laid out in front of me like a magic carpet, rolling in and out. You and I, we are not so different from fishing. That pulse, the vibration, has forced me to cast out into the unknown. My line sits in the water, waiting for a catch. But as the saying goes, it’s called fishing, not catching.

I am fishing for things that bite, things worth reeling in and keeping for my own. Though it’s impossible to know what will bite until it is directly in front of me. Sometimes the catch slips away, like you, but I remember that some things are best left to let go of. Because like the ocean and the line, more will flood toward me with the tide, with the hours passing through my body, with each galvanizing breath I take. There is no need to let anxiety overtake me as I wait. The things worth catching will make their way into my hand, onto my line.

I thought I wouldn’t be able to write you another letter. That last one was hard. Me, purging myself of you and all the destruction you carried. Which, I in turn carried inside and held onto so tightly—all that toxicity fermenting in  my blood. It’s funny that when I wrote you last I ended with water. I said, be like water, it is still and we are still because now we are fishing and manipulating its flow.

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