It is 3 at night, I’m done reading some parts of Kafka’s Letters to Felice and Milena. They ignited my imagination, so I end up writing a letter that I will never send, it will join another 1000 letters I wrote and never sent. They irony of Kafka’s letters, they were written, sent, and read, but they were never supposed to be published, despite that violation of Kafka’s privacy, his letters didn’t go to waste, they fulfilled their propose and destiny, “Written, Sent, and Read” this is the life cycle of a perfect letter, when I go through my 1000 unsent letters I think to myself; are they really letters? If they are kept into folders, does that make them letters? Or they’re just words, documents, meaningless, and waste of time!
My unsent letters reminds me of my unspoken words, I had so many things to tell her, but I never said a word, and now all the words are rusty, even when I want to speak them I mutter and stutter, and the words don’t make any sense anymore….