As the years went on, the letters alternated between despair and hope. The letter writer turned into a pothead, then an alcoholic, then an alcoholic pothead who couldn't make art anymore.
Many of the letters described long, meandering walks through New York City through eyes that didn't feel part of reality, in a body that was always outside of the circle.
After years of ache for love, a relationship blossomed, then spoiled; an anticipated marriage never materialized, and then the whole thing collapsed died. The letter writer fell very ill, left the city, then started all over in a small town.
I got my last letter a year ago. That person seems a lot closer to the person who wrote that very first letter. That person makes art again. Spends most of their time in nature. Is back in college studying something entirely new. The pothead and the alcoholic and all the toxic relationships are long gone. The slate feels washed clean.
There is a sense of innocence returned. Joy, excitement, hope for the future. Gratitude for the all wisdom accumulated between that first letter and the most recent.