Frustration ( Letters from the Past )
Before you read
Some pieces are easier to write than to read. This one was written from a place of profound exhaustion, where grief, pain, and hopelessness had narrowed the world to a single thought: When will this finally end? It is a reflection on that state of mind, not a request for help or a conclusion I hold today. Please read it gently—and only if you feel able to.
I am waiting.
And it’s taking far too long.
I am waiting,
and I feel exhausted by the thought that my turn is not even close.
I have been waiting so long that I wonder if it has forgotten where to find me.
I am so tired.
So out of breath.
So out of sleep.
And my dreams do nothing but haunt me, laughing at what could have been.
When my time comes, and death finally finds me,
I hope it taps me on the shoulder and apologizes for the delay.
I hope it reassures me that it has finally come for me,
and that this is not one of those times when I thought it was over,
only to find myself still breathing.
I hope it tells me the fight is done.
That the sleepless nights are finally over.
I hope it takes my hand and guides me toward what I have been waiting for all along.
I hope it admits that making me wait was crueler than saying goodbye ever could have been.
And that it helps me carry the weight I have borne for so long.
I hope it promises me it is quiet where it is taking me,
and assures me that I will finally rest.
I will look it in the eye,
and gratefully welcome it as an old friend—
as something I have been waiting for, for so long.
No more rushing.
No more waiting.
No more hoping.
It’s here now.
And it knows I have carried more than I was ever meant to.
Now it is my turn…
to close my eyes,
and let it all go.
Afterword :
If you ever find yourself where this letter once found me, remember this:
Life has a way of taking more than we think we can bear. Sometimes it will knock us down again before we’ve had the chance to stand.
Stand anyway.
As long as there is oxygen in your lungs, there is still a life to shape, a choice to make, a chapter that has not yet been written.
Being alive is not a small thing.
It is enough.
And one day, perhaps without even noticing when it happened, you’ll look back at the person who wrote a letter like this and realize they carried you farther than they ever believed they could.
