Our pool man stopped coming about two months ago. Now our pool is green and fillthy. We tried dumping a few bucketloads of chlorine in there, and it made it nice and blue for about a week, then it got cruddy again. The air conditioner is broken as well, so it's about 90 degrees in my groom. It's also five in the morning, and I havn't been able to sleep. I don't know why, but I've been thinking about you a lot lately. I wonder how you're doing these days. I wonder where you're living, and if you're happy. I wonder if you've given up smoking (This, I fear is only motivated by personal greed, you used to taste like ecstacy embodied, but it all became so sour) sour, like our relationship. I wonder now, as I wonder every time- what happened? I tend to forget whose feet the blame should lay at, or even if blame should be assigned at all. I know, intellectually that it's never going to work between us. Because I'm too rigid, too stagnant, and you're too troublesome, too explorative. I think, often, when I'm alone in bed, how wonderful it would be to look over and see you there. To reach out, and be able to hold you. How I'd love to hold you close to me, to pull you in towards me, just to feel the contact between us. Then I think of how much I couldn't deal with it again. How much you've hurt me, and I'm sure how much I've hurt you in the past. When I called you the other day, I was trembling so much at the sound of your voice. I don't know why but I practically went into convulsions just talking to you. I don't know if you can remember or not but that's happened before when I was around you. I'd just start to shake for no reason. I'm working at ***** now, which is ok, though it's far too easy. I figured out though why I haven't been able to really hold down a job up until this point. I hate it. That's not saying much, because who doesn't, but, I'm not talking about the honrmal hatred of work we all experience. I'm speaking of a deep-seeded fear that I'll wake up one day, five years from now, and I'll still be working there. That I'll end up, like millions of others holed up in some shitty job, in some shitty apartment all alone. Somewhere deep inside I'm terrified that I'll never live up to the potential I know I have inside of me. That I'll never really be good for anything. I often review my past decisions, and I cringe at some of the things I've said, and done. I don't really know why I'm writting this to you. I don't really know what I expect it will accomplish, except that I know I can't sleep anymore. Ok, I can sleep still but it comes with a lot of effort. I sit alone at night, in my room and I wonder what I'm doing with my life. Then again, I'm sitting, alone, in the dark, in my room now, at five in the morning wondering what I'm doing writting this to you now. What do I really expect from this? I already know I can't trust you, and even if I could, even if I thought everything in the world could be resolved though this letter, what makes me think your current situation lends itself to that same resolution? I wrote a couple pages when I first got hired by ***** to help me sort out what was going on in my life at the time. But now I find that release woefully inadaquate. Much like a bucket of chlorine in an algea infested swimming pool it failed to deliver any permanent cleansing of my spirit. I started working out again, I really love the way it makes me feel afterwards, even if I hate the feeling I have during. I can't wait for school to start again, I'll finally feel like I'm getting somewhere in my life once that happens. I'll be 21 in a few months, 21 years on this earth and the most I have to show for it is a stack of love letters that say somebody once cared for me a great deal. I didn't even give you that. I don't know why I never did, but, I read them now when I'm feeling at my lowest and wonder why I never left you the same gift. I suppose I knew you'd never really have to be alone in life. I suppose I figured I could never really get you to walk my path, and knew I was never destined to walk yours. But I think back on our time now and I wonder so many things. Mostly I wonder about the things you told me, and I consider how much of it was truth and how much was fiction. I wonder how much of it you truley believe and how much you just told me to keep my attention. But, looking at the stack of love letters I keep behind one of the cupboards I wonder, did you mean it when you said you loved me? Did I manage to effect at least one person's life in that sense? If I never find out about anything else I think I need to know that, if only so that I can sleep again without feeling like I'm destined to collect algea the rest of my life. I used to think of myself as a stone, standing gloroiusly in the rush of a river, undaunted by its flow. Now I'm beginning to wonder if I've just been too stubborn to let go the riverbed, and find where life takes me. Maybe I'm writting this because I want there to be a chance of me waking up with you beside me again, maybe it's because I want to know I'll never have to worry about that again, maybe it's because I need to know someone cares about me in that way. Maybe I'm writting this because the air conditioner's broken, and it's 90 degrees in my room, and the pool is green and crusty, and a few buckets of chlorine is woefully insufficent for the task, at five in the morning