Dear to whom it may concern,
This letter probably won’t find its way to you because it’ll either be shredded, burned, or turned into some “reusable organic” tool people seem to come up with nowadays. Yet, here I am writing to you anyway. Should I write to you about our nonexistent explorations around the world? Or our imaginary arguments that always ended with our fingers tracing each others skin? Or should I write about our future? Yes, our future. To be clear, let’s define what future is: the time that is to be or come hereafter. So with that being said, our future would most likely be A: Me, writing this letter, or B: You actually being real, however you wouldn’t even know I exist, so it would go back to A. Where do I go from that? I’m just running in circles in my head, hoping to finish the race. Is this even a love letter? What is this even? What is love? What is a letter? Does love have to be: a profoundly tender, passionate affection for another person? Can a letter just be words on a paper, with Dear and Sincerely slapped on it? Or is there more to it? Is love a choice or a feeling? Can a letter be more than just empty words, with beauiful sounds? I suppose so. However this wasn’t the point of the letter. But it seems nothing ever has a point.