An open letter.

I hope this finds you doing well. I hope this finds you alive. We aren't friends on the facebook anymore so I have no real estimation of your station in life now. Honestly I don't really care too much past wishing you well, you know, that you're alive and stuff.

I'm not thinking of you as often anymore. There are days that go by that I don't even think of you. Sometimes when I hear the Peppers on the radio I don't even think of you, not at first anyway. It's strange. I spent so much energy on you at one point in my life it's difficult filling your void. In that respect I miss you, but that's pretty much it.

I went in Hollister the other day and I think I know what it feels like to have a wipe-out or whatever your surfer lingo called it. I was okay at first, I didn't even doubt my ability to navigate the tricky waves; I wasn't paying attention and wandered into the rip tide. And then you came rushing back all at once and I was dragged under and pulled along and all I could do was panic and ride the undertow and tumble head over feet head over feet head over feet

cartwheeling along the bottom watching the repetition of light dark light dark light dark and feeling the sand grinding into my skin and tasting the grit and the salt and the sting in my eyes

And then I hit the sand and found myself breathing in air, gulping it in really. Not drowning. I did an emotional inventory and found that I was not lacking. Gulping the air. I survived. Not lacking, but whole. You may still have the ability to drag me across the reef every now and then but you no longer hold your tidal sway over me. I have revoked that from you, as it was a gift I gave you that you spurned and did not solicit. I apologize for that.

I no longer swim in your sea. You won't notice that I've left. Or maybe you will. But you're too proud. You won't turn around and watch me leave. You'll just go on as you always have. Maybe you'll whisper a good-bye to me on the horizon one day.

Yours will be waiting for you there.

Good luck.