Dear old[er] me:
It’s okay to be scared, but I will not allow for stupidity. It’s okay to have no idea where you are heading in life, so long as you are moving. (Or crawling. Or crying. Crying can be very cathartic and productive. Just make sure you don’t cry too much or else you’ll get a migraine.)
I know you don’t like baths, not even ones with bubbles and Lush bombs, so if you’re ever feeling down know that candles and a notebook will suffice.
I hope you haven’t become the type of person who doesn’t believe in love. Love is more than teenage me searching for dreamy painter boy who watches Wes Anderson films and plays me songs on the guitar in late July sans teenage acne and bad dental hygiene. Love is Rumi; love is learning that your neighbor has a hidden passion for karate and the arts; love is climbing a super tall tree and knowing how to get down safely.
I want to hug you but I doubt you would like that because I know you dislike children. In fact, you’re probably cringing at my terrible writing as you read this. That’s okay. One day old oLD me will cringe at everything you are writing at this very moment. There are always so many things to cringe about. That’s a very good thing, though. It means you’re getting better, I think.
I don’t know if you are lost right now, more lost than I am here in my room. I don’t know if I should comfort you, or advise you, or just tell you that everything is going to be okay. Maybe you’re having the time or your life right now.
So, I’ll say goodbye for now. I’ll see you (well, be you,) sooner than you know it.