Every time I sat down to write a letter to myself, I ended up tearing the paper apart. I found it emotionally naked and mentally grieving. I never wanted to express the burdens I carry, even to myself. Though a sentence cannot go on with commas, there comes a time when it should be brought to an end with a full stop. I have always been honest with the people I shared moments with, but I acted with myself even in the most vulnerable states. I always walked away from the moment of breakdown. I don’t know what I was trying to show. To the best of my ability, I was there for people, listening to them without questioning. Yet, for myself, I always hurried to reach somewhere, though knowing that someday I would no longer make this excuse. While looking in the mirror, I only saw a fuzzy reflection. I am angry at myself for never pushing towards a pristine start. Why did I glare at myself with a futile look? What if I had not pushed myself into an abyss? There was always a minuscule hope...