The only people for me are the mad ones

In exactly one month, it will be my five-year anniversary with the great Land of Oz. In tribute, I have written a letter to my 18-year-old self, in the hopes that a passing time traveller would pass it along to her:

5th July 2007

Dear silly, impulsive, 18 year old me,

How wonderful the world must look to you! The naïve gloss that comes with teenage hood – all bright eyes and easy smiles; how intoxicating it is to just indulge headily in that freedom. The freedom to rage and love, to refuse yet persist. And I know better than to counsel you restraint.

It is thus quite improbable that you would heed much of what I have to say (stubborn creature that you are, I doubt it would make much of a difference anyway). But I will still say this: loneliness is not a sin. Repeat it to yourself. Like sadness, it is maybe more akin to an annoying companion; inasmuch as the more you try to drive it away, the more it clings. Be as present as you can in your happy moments, so that when the sad and restless times come, you have something to weigh them against. And you do have a few perfect memories that even time cannot distemper.

The years will roll on, and the world will gradually seem to grow more austere and mellow. I will not lie: there will be times when you feel no heater is strong enough to warm you. Your silence will carry the world that happens within you, even when it's so far away. (Remind yourself in times like these – that if you can take the dark with open eyes, you will survive.)

Life appears to have a healthy sense of irony sometimes, doesn't it. But it doesn’t seem to be having a laugh at your expense, so just relax! Let it go. It doesn't matter what they think. The future may yet to be explicable to you, but don’t worry. Those answers will come.

In the meanwhile, be patient. The world is your autumn sonnet.

Sincerely, 

R 

P.S. Call home more.