I wrote it all in a letter. Maybe the words I wrote a few days ago, got lost on their way. A few loving sentences went one way, and the paragraph where I wrote how I truly felt, simply stared at the orange and red of the trees, here in Maine. Here in Maine, my parents speak to me about opportunity. Here in Maine, friends from out of state colleges ask me what I've been up to and where my life is heading. Here in Maine, it's always the same.

Once a year the summer comes. It's hot and muggy most of the time. You enjoy it though. You go through the chores of life, sweating and cursing the weather. And Fall comes. Autumn some say. And I try to figure it all out there usually. But you can't. You don't know what's going to happen, because you haven't really done much with life. You can't talk to those friends about where your life will go, and your Parents, well Parents say a lot of things.

So you look, you work, and you study. But it's never enough to get your mind off crazy ideas. Dreams maybe. But Winter comes all of a sudden. It slows everything down. You don't think that much, you just go. You go because it's fucking cold. It's always cold in the winter. But you get used to it. The pain in your fingers. The pale gaunt faces of your family, friends, and neighbors--we're all ghosts walking through unplowed roads. The thing that worries me most though, is the spring.

It's the spring where you act crazy. It's where dreams take form. They come out of our heads. After being so cold and so alone, they go out into the closest field--to mediate and melt with the snow of yesterday's woes. And there, in that mud field of hurt and misunderstandings of the world--sits feelings and dreams that you can't get rid of.

So you go and search the world, filling your head with more dreams and plans--but lacking the means to execute them. So you say, fuck it. And you write it all down. In a letter--and you send it, far; you send that letter so far, far away.

And you wonder. Will it get lost along the way?