To Leo

Dearest,
I don't know exactly why I am writing you this, I am not sure exactly what I want to tell you. I just know that you're the only one who might understand the unfathomable, even to myself. I know you know what's coming next, it's the same old same old, really. I am so tried, Leo. It's like sadness lures me in, you know me better than most I am not romanticizing, but I don't know how else to put it. Sometimes I feel like there's something rotten inside me and it's the reason for my state, it's the reason for my constant despair and anxiety. I always have this feeling that something is chasing me, that something is going to get me for good. Sometimes I just wait for it to, you know. There is so much I can't say out loud, there are many things I am ashamed of, Leo. I mostly feel like I am looking at myself through a glass door; the observer is so much repulsed by the observed, sometimes I pity me, too. I am looking for answers in Bob Dylan songs, and I know he doesn't offer them, I am just desperate. I turn from song to song, from book to book, looking for a page or a line that would give me some sense of familiarity, anything that tells me that I am not so alone, anything that wards off this alienation. In a sense I know I am not _alone_, but it doesn't help that much, you know? Am I making sense? I keep going further and further into myself I don't know what is what anymore, Leo. This is the most I've talked to anyone since forever, but again, you know me better than most, this might be a quarter of the story. I love you, darling.
Yours forever,