To Me A Little While Ago (first letter)

I suppose we’re storytellers telling stories to ourselves, but I haven’t thought of it until now.  I don’t remember you thinking this before.  Most of the time I wonder what you used to think about.  Does anything I remember align with what was?  I imagine writing to you as I write to you. What is one without the other?  What becomes of them regardless?
Whatever you’ve posited as self-evident is now up for grabs.  That’s about all I can verify between us.  I try to recall where our head and heart were at with those last not sent letters.  I get lost.  We mistake each other for an eternal I that doesn’t exist.
I object to so much that you’ve done, but at least I know something about it indirectly.  You won’t know anything of what I’ll do – what I’m doing right now.  You might never anticipate it, and even if you could, would you know?  How can I know?  Perhaps if you wrote it down – but that might be some sort of ruse or distracted daydream — maybe even art or something else like it.  Who knows?  For the most part you’ve just cruelly misquoted me.  I don’t mean me now, but us before you.  I know this because I do the same with you all the time.  It’s an unintended cruelty  — the reaction you get when the indifference of time and the subjective, needy nature of memory mix (they can’t be kept a part for long anyway, no matter how hard one tries).
The not sent letters, countless emails, accumulating phone pictures, texts, social media posts, doodles and scribbling, the piles of stuff you’ve left lying around – they present a lack of gratitude for the life we’ve been given together — an unwillingness to shake hands.  At least I feel that way in the moment (those instances of cruelty I’ve already mentioned).  It’s a recurring betrayal.
Maybe our self to come will feel differently about all this.