Wake up, slap yourself! It's Me, You, and somehow I'm sending Us a letter from Myself in the future. I know what you're thinking, Pal. You think that it is considerably far into the future. Far enough that technology has granted Me the ability to send our foolish, younger self a warning through some sort of time traveling fax machine. You're probably surprised we're still alive. You are also likely thinking I am now a pathetic and toothless old man who got lent the stereotypical idea while enduring his 314th trip to rehab to write his not so bright younger self an urgent message reporting the tragic news on just how devastating a toll that first shot of whiskey has taken on his poor brittle bones... or something.
Actually, no, it's only next year, not much farther into the future than tomorrow and to admit that I understand how You, Myself, is actually reading this non-existent note is way beyond my own faith in the potential greatness of future technology. When this note is finished I plan on slipping it into a state-issued envelope addressed to our wonderful mother still living in Los Angeles. I'll then hope it is somehow sucked into a portal that is kind and understanding enough to teleport its contents somewhere near a city sidewalk, last year, soon to be crossed by an ignorant and reckless young man on his way to spend his last greasy one hundred dollar bill on a peculiar brown, toffee-like substance barely the size of a gumball. You know who and what I'm talking about, Me. And you are probably expecting at this point for me to direct you to turn around, go home and ask our fiscally responsible father to invest that stained one hundred dollar bill in gold, identity theft protection or something - you know - with "promise."
Alright then brother - go home now, turn around, the destination you've chosen happens to be an empty and forsaken place. When was the last time you told that wonderful mother or fiscally responsible father that you love them? When I venture to be realistic I realize that these words are no use. You will continue your quest to buy the sticky heroin and when your itch has been relieved you will then go home and tell mom and dad how much you love them. Sounds good. Unfortunately the next time you will get a chance to tell your mother how wonderful she is, you two will be separated by a piece of bullet proof glass. Your eyes will sweat briefly in harmony with hers, but your tears will not drain on her behalf. Your pain will be selfish but justified for such torment suppressed is likely to leak every now and then.
As I continue to write you, my friend, I playfully expect to suddenly disappear and be where I would have been if we would have listened to that adversarial voice, the unconditionally loving, forever sabotaging, Myself. But as I sink back to reality once again you whisper, "It's no use." Even if science fiction were to play a part in these affairs, a miraculous letter appearing at your feet wouldn't hold more than an initial shock. These words are no different than the nagging spirit that chimes in every time you begin to do something I deem extremely foolish and vice versa. What an ambivalent conscience we have! And what an irony it is, the lack of respect it's been provided. And you are with me now. I don't need a time machine to tell you anything. Sometimes I want to hate you and sometimes I exhaust myself doing so, but like a small child scored for an unconscious mistake, the contempt is never any match for the power that is wrought through patience, love and understanding.