Letters to no-one.

A quantity of 4 letters now reside between my Abnormal & Clinical Psychology folder and my printer. Each envelope holds a significant name on its front. It was time that all of the emotion inside was externalised. They exist, of course, and they may do so for a very long time to come. I have no intention of destroying these fragments of my insides. They exist, now contained in a body other than my own. The lows, the highs, and the lessons learned. I know they are there.
The named will never receive these letters, though a great proportion of me wish for their autonomy; to be caught in an updraft, and to grace the dining room table of each of them.

You see, I have discussed and thought at great length just recently; the position I stand in.
I stand neither in the realm of promiscuity, nor of abstinence and utter solitude. Intelligence, attractiveness, and wit, I stand in no extreme. The vast majority of us are not in the middle of this world. The average are the few here. We are those who stand thinking, and longing; longing to be loved but thinking all of the while. We are of course too preoccupied with thought to appreciate our surroundings; the love, the humour, and also the horror of either side. Neither pole satiates our desires. There are greater things than our gratification. We may shiver out of fear; we die, we may cry for the past; the deceased, and we may collect souvenirs. We are the reminiscent and the contemplative. The sacrifice of this is happiness, and the concept of the loss of this middle ground. Paranoia and jealousy override the beauty of our moment, and all is lost.

If only the lost could know; know all of the unknown that is known to the privileged current.

I examined 2 of the 4's previous correspondences.
I found two patterns, two collisions of the past and the future, both blissfully unconscious of the other. 'Romanticised encounters, the wrong time' and 'Physical confrontation never seems to end with any satisfaction?'.

We lose concentration.