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Enschede, January 2020

You probably think I forgot your birthday last year, but I didn’t. In fact, I wrote you a letter, I just didn’t have the courage to send it. I’m writing you another one this year, this decade—althought it’s not this—but again I’m not sure if I’ll find the courage to send it. It’ll arrive late anyway.  It’s the first letter I’ve written in a while because letters feel heavy, the weight of the pen, the weight of Marker, and of Beckett. Particularly Beckett, he spoke of how difficult it was to write letters. I once wrote that in a letter to someone and she returned it with a furious note: if you hate writing letters to me then stop writing. I can see why she was mad, although I still blame Beckett.

It’s never been that I don’t enjoy writing letters, I’m doing so now (not right now) because I miss the practice of letter-writing as much as I miss you. It’s just that I’d rather tell you about my day, my job, my grandfather dying, yet the pen is always hijacked by the letter and all the Romantics before me. That’s why I didn’t send you anything last year and why I probably won’t send this one either- not this one anyway, this is a just a letter to me thinking about a letter to you.