Message in a Bottle - Lost

Messages come in many forms but my favourite are those anonymous notes that brave the seas (or the web).  There's something cathartic about releasing those words into the great unknown, hoping they might reach the person they were meant for.  The Message in a Bottle series gives readers (and myself) that chance.  I am so proud of everyone that is brave enough to give it a try, and am equally humbled by the fact you trust me to deliver your message.

I used to love going to the public library.  My first love when it comes to books is the bookstore, specifically the giant three storey Chapters downtown, but there was always something about the history of the books in libraries (and used bookstores) that drew me in.  Tracing my fingers along the cracked spines and worn covers, I wondered where they had travelled and who they used to belong to.  The best thing about used or borrowed books is what gets left behind, tucked between the pages; receipts, letters, homework, poetry, all creating a story of their own for the next person to find them. 

I found a letter today that made me sad beyond belief.  Tucked into a worn copy of "Paradise Lost" by John Milton was a part of someone's journal that I'm sure was never meant to see the light of day.  I've never read Paradise Lost, so I can't really say I understand the significance of finding these pages in this particular book. 
What made me so sad about this lost letter is that I know exactly what they are feeling.  We've all been there before, in varying degrees, feeling helpless and alone.  Some of you might not agree with my posting a stranger's words here without their permission, but I do it in the hope that they (and anyone else that feels like this) will somehow find this and see they aren't as alone as they think. 

People always leave.  Sometimes they come back, but even if they do, nothing is ever the same.  Circumstances, lives, minds, and even hearts change over time and you're left with nothing but regrets.

I never imagined my life would be this ordinary.  It is neither exceptionally good, nor bad - just average.

It's times like this, when I don't have enough to keep me busy or the energy to pretend that I think about what people's lives would be like if I was gone.  I don't think about hurting myself (mainly because I know I would ultimately be too chicken) but I do think about disappearing.  Sometimes it feels like I'm already half way there.

I think about how my family would feel, how my friends would react, and how long it would take for everyone to move on and forget.  Sometimes I'm scared to admit it probably wouldn't take as long as I hope.

Sometimes the sadness is too much so I'll get in the car and drive, as if I could out run the hurt and the fear, but most of all, the lies.  Sometimes I come out and sit beside a wall, confessing to the dead, imagining their replies, until the chill cuts down to my bones.

People always leave so I try to beat them to the punch.  But regardless of who leaves first, things are never the same; I am never the same.  How can you be when you are surrounded by ghosts?