Letter to Self

To Jason.

I imagine you'll be about twenty-five by now. If you're not, maybe just skim this. It isn't intended for you yet.

You are listening to Regina Spektor at 10:41pm on Wednesday the 11th of July, 2012. This is assuming that time works that way, of course. I mean, you're probably doing something else right now simultaneously in the future-land that you're occupying.

Well, of course you are, you're reading this. How novel.

If you haven't changed much, you're probably rolling your eyes at my attempt to funny. That's fair. I'd like to take the chance to point out that technically speaking everything on this blog is a letter to you. Look how much time you've spent writing letters to yourself! You should be very grateful.

I decided to write a more direct letter in part because Stephen Fry was so unsettled by his. Do you remember it? It was something along the lines of "You aren't the real Stephen Fry, I am, because what I'm feeling right now is a thousand times more powerful than anything you will, and you'll spend the rest of your life chasing the shadow of what you felt when you were twenty." Edit out Stephen Fry's name and insert my own, and that's something like what I want to say to you.

I also want to apologise, because I won't be capable of sustaining these high passions for long. I'm burning away, but you know that. I know that. Eventually I'll take something or do something or decide something that will doom what I'm feeling right now. Perhaps I'll drop out of uni, lose a friend who was very dear to us, take a narcotic that wasn't properly prepared, get hooked on booze, lash out in anger - or simply slip into a solipsistic haze. You, future Jason, you already know whatever it was that we did. You're probably living in the aftereffects of it, struggling to piece together some sort of life that reflects the sheer unrelenting joy of the years that I'm selfishly occupying right now. I'm going to take the chance to apologise for my part in whatever happened. We won't ask the Jason of that time to come along and apologise, because I'm sure that he'll be very busy having a nervous breakdown or something. But we know that he's sorry, and that I'm sorry, and hopefully you can forgive us.

I can't think of what else to say to you. Look around at the surrounding blog posts. They probably mean nothing by this point, or maybe they mean everything. I'm not sure. I hope you're doing well. More importantly, I hope you're still writing. You're surrounded by beautiful things - both right now, and wherever you are. Probably best that you don't lose sight of that.

Keep everybody around you happy and alive, even if they don't want you to. That's in keeping with a promise that I've made to you, and that you have to uphold. If you don't, you might as well stop hanging on, because what's the point?

Speaking of the point, you might have lost sight of it, but have faith that you'll find it again, because the years that we'll have on this earth are limited and when we slip into death, united at last, I'd like it to be with the knowledge that we hung on for as long as we could.

I apologise if the tone of this message is overly morbid. It's because I can't imagine a time in my life where I'm happier than I am now, so I'm phrasing all of this as if I'm comforting somebody for a loss. I suppose in a way, with that attitude, I must be. I'll take solace in the fact that right now, I'm vibrant and content and powerful and that's all we have ever wanted.

I'll be in touch, unless you drink away your memories. Pay no attention to the formative years, by the way - they don't hold anywhere near as much sway over me as we think they do. Well, not anymore.

I adore you, and I always will - with a high and fiery passion, the most you'll ever feel.

Love,
Jason.