Wednesday, April 18, 2012

a letter to the boy who reasons with time.

To Deacon,

I think I know you.
But I wish to know you further.

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I feel like time has a way of laying itself into my palm, as if I get to choose who to give it to. And I foresee myself giving quite a lot to you, if that is okay. My gift to you.

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Today, you are eighteen. Today, they say you become a man. An adult.
It's a lot of pressure all for one day, I know. But I think perhaps you've already reached the point that they expect you to be at today. I think you were forced to grow up a long time ago, and time is slowly running to keep up with you.

You'll only be here once, they'll say. Maybe it's true, and maybe you should make the most of it. Take a few risks, take a few dares, defend what you have and defend what you love, and always know that though you're only here once, being here tomorrow is also an achievement.

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I hope that somehow, I've given you some sort of comfort this past year. I know I'm stubborn, I'm hateful and sometimes I can just be rude, but through that I try to be the best I can for you, because I know that if anyone deserves it, it's you. And I know that my best is only a fraction of the best of you, but I hope you can give me time to improve on it.

This upcoming year will be difficult, I know, and I will not be right down the street for the majority of it. Despite that, I want you to put yourself out there--I want you to be brave and courageous, I want you to latch on to hope and success and keep them close, I want you to always remember me even when I'm far away, and I want you to see the goodness in a day even when it looks dim.

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And don't go anywhere, I'll be back before you know it.

Love you, 
Emily