Dear Darling

03

Dylan

The low hum of static filled my apartment. The sound of silence. I enjoyed the moments right after waking up, when you slowly emerge from the haze of sleep that chains you and you hear nothing. That's the best part of my day, besides playing my songs on the streets on weekends.

My first thought when I fully enter consciousness is, oddly, Josephine. This mystery girl that sent me a letter. I know nothing about her, other than she's hurting and somehow, I feel like I need to help her. Her? She? I'm not even sure that Josephine is a girl. Letters are just as misleading as the internet - especially because I don't even know her. She could really be a man, some creep who gets his rocks off by sending phony letters filled with sorrow to random addresses. As soon as I thought it, the idea seemed far fetched and honestly crazy.

I had sent a response back to her a few days ago, and I was on edge waiting for a reply. I hoped that she would write me back, even if to just let me know that she was okay. Even if she wrote me just to tell me that she wasn't interested in an ongoing correspondence, that would be fine, because then I would know that her first letter wasn't some morbid suicide note.

I got out of bed, making my way to the bathroom to take a shower. When I entered the bathroom, I stopped to look at my reflection. It hadn't been long ago when I couldn't even muster a peek at myself in a mirror. Memories of a tormented past that I had vowed to myself that I would forget, even if it killed me, all came rushing back the moment I saw myself. I wondered if I would be able to see myself without seeing him, too.

I peeled my eyes away from looking at the mirror and started the water in the shower; when I climbed in, I turned the already warm water hotter, standing under the spray and letting it soak into my skin. My thoughts once again drifted to the letter that I had left on my table. I almost hadn't opened it when I found it in my mailbox - I thought whoever wrote it must have written the address wrong or the post office delivered it to the wrong place. But the neat handwriting clearly read for my address, so I opened it.

Josephine's words immediately caught my attention. Everything seems broken, she had said. The very first words I had known from her were words of depressive mourning. She spoke of a loss that I had never experienced; I don't know who April is, but Josephine obviously loved her and was not handling her loss in the "normal" sense. Sure, I had experienced pain. Physical and mental pain that still gave me nightmares if I let it stew in my brain.

My mom tells me I have a Messiah complex. I need to save people, because it "satisfies my soul" as she put it. I thought about that when I was reading Josephine's letter. And I realized that mom was right - I felt obligated, maybe not to "save" Josephine, but to at least talk to her; to let her know that there was someone in the world who was willing to listen and talk to her about what she was going through. Maybe I could be a friend.

And now, I anxiously awaited a reply from a stranger who lived in a very far away town from me. Port Townsend was a long way from New York. I had always lived in this city, and I didn't even know where the hell Port Townsend was when I got Josephine's letter, I had to google it. Something I feel a little ashamed of, but in this age of technology, it is expected that my generation generally doesn't have a fucking clue where anything is outside of our world. My world, consists of Manhattan and music - thus ends my "understanding" of the rest of the world and its geography. It's a stereotype that I've come to accept after having the assumption that people my age are stupid or incapable; millennials and all that.

I turned off the water and climbed out of the shower, wrapping a towel around my waist. I quickly brushed my teeth and shook my hair dry before getting dressed. I wanted to get to Central Park today, I hadn't been there to play since last week. I tried to move around the city, playing in different places in order to most appeal to different audiences. Mostly, I played covers of songs, but I had been trying to write more of my own songs lately. I was good at writing the music - I could compose melodies on my guitar and they didn't sound horrible, but the words were what I struggled with. Joe was the word writer in our band, I was in charge of coming up with the sound that best matched the tone of the words.

When I was dressed, I pulled on my jacket and grabbed my guitar case from its spot beside my bedroom door. I made my way out of my apartment, heading for the elevator, when I saw Mrs. Manuel.

"Good morning, Mrs. Manuel," I greeted her with a smile.

"Oh hello, Dylan," She replied. "Where are you headed off to?"

"Central Park," I shrugged my case up so she could see. "Trying to make a few tips,"

We both walked to the elevator, I held the doors for her so she could enter first.

"Thank you dear," She told me.

"No problem,"

We rode down to the Lobby in comfortable silence. Mrs. Manuel was always a nice lady, she was one of the first to welcome me to the building when I moved in. She was a stout woman, in her fifties, that owned a small pomeranian named Rocco.

I headed out of the building after waving goodbye to Mrs. Manuel. Crossing the street, I began walking towards the Subway.

+

"I'll wear the bright pink tie you wore that day, I'll make the promises you never made, I'll be the man you'll never be,"

There was a small crowd that had gathered around me in the few minutes I'd been playing. The sun was out, shining New York temperatures down on the inhabitants of the city. People passing by occasionally dropped a dollar or a few coins into my open case, but I enjoyed playing most for those people who stopped to actually listen. Those that heard the words I was singing, though most of them were written by other people, meant something to me. I didn't play because I wanted fame and fortune although, that could be nice, I played because I wanted to share the magic of music with others.

The crowd clapped as I finished the song, and I did a small theatrical bow. I began strumming a melody I've been working on for a few weeks; the chords were mindless movements - muscle memory. The people around me dispersed and passerby continued to drop change into my case.

I stayed at the park for the next two hours, playing covers or melodies I've written. All in all, I made about $50; not terrible, but I've done better. I packed up my guitar, walking out of the park and making my way back to my apartment.

The sounds of the city filled my ears and I found myself at peace. I loved New York, living here was amazing. I've lived here all my life, and I never got tired of walking around. The lights on the signs, the sounds of the people, the smells of the food - it all made up my home.

The light of the New York sun shone down on my face and I was warmed by the feel of it on my skin. I wondered if Port Townsend had the same type of sun that New York had. I wondered if Josephine would look up at the sky and love the warmth of the light that looked down on her just as much as I did.

I wondered if she would mail me back.