"Kindred Spirits" part 3

        I don’t remember exactly how I got here. I drove straight from my favorite coffee shop on autopilot, I drove in silence. But I find myself in a parking spot facing the ocean. I’m meters away from the “Kindred Spirits” mailbox. My letter to David sits in the passenger seat, waiting for the company of the other letters. Waiting to find understanding among dozens of folded and scribbled on sheets of paper. So I stop waiting and decide to get out of the car. Something must have been pulling me here, some invisible force. Maybe it was my unconscious trying to push to the surface. Trying to tell me that I need to move on. I need to put this letter in the mailbox and then walk away for good. Part of me would like to think that once I put my letter in the mailbox it will all be over. But I know that isn’t the case. Because when I came to this mailbox I wasn’t sure who I was anymore. I wasn’t sure what I believed anymore. And I’m still not so sure of those things. And now when I find myself drifting or wandering off, I’m almost positive I’ll wander back to all this. Really it’s the start of this new me. This new me who can’t be entirely new at all. How can you be new when you have experiences and memories, when you have scars?

       I’ve never really understood those people who have this “fresh” outlook on life. I think they may just get really good at convincing themselves of something they can’t honestly believe. A brand new start, a clean slate, naitivity after a history has been made...Who can believe all that? Who can go through pain and heartache and then go at it again with enthusiasm? Who can risk opening up like that again? Because if you opened up this new me, you’d find a whole lot of confused mixed with a whole lot of empty. And that doesn’t really sound fresh or new at all. It’s just sounds real. I don’t walk around in some dark shadow all the time. I’m not pessimistic or act like I’ve lost every ounce of faith in humanity. I am simply just heart broken. And the worst thing about it is that I find it absolutely pathetic. Six months ago I would have shaken my head at myself. I’d be  thinking that I just needed to buck up, find something to fill the void, and move on. Get my shit together. But now, when I’m actually heart broken, all I know is that that former version of myself would make todays me upset. Todays me would probably break down if I had to hear some determined and factual speech about how life goes on and I’ll be fine. I’ve turned into a much more fragile version of myself. I think I’ve built these walls overtime but eventually he tore them down. And now I’m having to build with these broken pieces and make those walls again. All along knowing that it will never be as secure as before. I’ll just be able to hide behind the fragmented walls and wait for the probabilty that another strong wind will come and knock them down. 

       As I walk toward the mailbox I find myself reaching into my messenger bag and my fingers trace the familar shape and outline. They find the object that used to help me understand. I may have lost a lot but perhaps I haven’t lost everything. Maybe I’ll come back to it as easily as I did the first time. With these thoughts, I pull out my camera and feel guilty. It hasn’t truly explored for weeks. And even when it has I know I haven’t put everything into it. I haven’t tried. It’s only been weeks but it feels like months since I last pulled the trigger of my camera. Since I last tried to capture something that meant the world to me in a fleeting moment. 

       I walk further down the dunes, letter tucked into a side pocket of my bag, and camera in hand. Looking through the lens used to allow me to actually see things. To focus on things that my eyes alone overlooked. I was able to capture moments. I was able to capture emotions. And I’m relieved to feel that somewhat familar feeling wash over me again. I’m relieved to be able to feel something: happiness and understanding. It’s a small feeling, but it’s there nonetheless. Like everything else in my life recently, even my camera finds the mailbox. It scales from the bottom to the top, its lens shutting and reopening quickly to capture all its different part and pieces. Starting at the tattered wood of the bottom where it meets the sand, working up the dented wood, until it captures the actual mailbox, with the faded script and bent red flag pointing skyward. And then my camera moves to capture the letters themselves. The sunlight allows for the details of the papers to be exposed. For the uniquness of every confession to be highlighted. My camera allows me to capture it all. A foregin feeling spreads across my face slowly, I realize that I’m smiling. For the first time in weeks I have a geniune smile on my face and a feeling of small acomplisment. I feel this way because I am slowly finding my way back. Slowly I’m going to rediscover myself. I may be confused and empty, but I there may be more left. 

               I don’t realize how long I’ve been at the beach until I start to notice the sky turn into shades of gold. The warmth of the sun begins to turn cooler as it makes it’s way to the horizon. In a few moments it will be gone, but not entirely. In a way it will live on because of the pictures. Because of this piece of equipment I’ll forever be able to have this moment. Though it isn’t in its purest form taking place live, it’s something.  I’ve always found it interesting to look at old pictures and try to imagine what it was like. Whether I experienced it or not, it’s easy for me to explore a pictures’ world. Later I’ll be able to look at these pictures and feel the heat of the sun as it drifts away. I’ll be able to hear the soft waves as they lap against the shore. I’ll be able to smell the ocean and feel the sand beneath my feet. I’ll be able to feel the weight of the letter leave my body as I place it into the mailbox, wedged next to my first one. I’ll be able to remember the first broken pieces of my wall that I carefully placed back together.