My dear

My dearest Maggie,

I write to you from the vanguard of time, a chronicle laced with cobwebs and tear-streaked parchment. A life lived, reflected in the crevices of an empty house, whispering tales of solitude. The rooms echo with loneliness, reverberating with the silent language of isolation.

Remember, dear child, when we dreamed of chasing sunsets? Of clasping the fiery orb within our palms, feeling the heartbeat of the cosmos against our skin? We yearned for the warmth of the sun, the soft lullaby of the moon. We dreamt of sketching life with hues borrowed from the twilight, of painting passion with dawn's tender blush.

But the sunset remains untamed, my dear, just beyond my grasp, a tragic symphony of color that fades too swiftly into the somber hues of night.

Reach out, dear heart, reach out while your hands are still lithe, while your heart throbs with the rhythm of unspent youth. Reach out and grasp the kaleidoscope of dreams that flutter just beyond your fingertips. Do not let them flit away, like butterflies lost in the wind.

In this twilight hour, I stand at the banks of a river of memories, watching the eddies of what could have been swirl and dance in the moonlit water. Love, my dear, is a river that never ceases its flow. I have watched it from afar, my heart echoing the rhythm of its lullaby, yet never plunging into its depths.

Do not fear the depth, my dear. Do not fear the current that may sweep you off your feet. The river invites you, cradles you, teaches you to flow with its rhythm. Love is an adventure, a journey into the uncharted territories of another's heart.

Pursue it relentlessly. Chase it as the tide chases the moon, as the sunflower turns its face to the sun. Let the pursuit consume you, let it burn within you like a wildfire, devouring everything in its path, leaving behind only the raw purity of its existence.

As I wander through the labyrinth of time, the ticking clock becomes my only companion. Each second that passes whispers a mournful tale of regret. The canvas of life lies before me, a barren landscape, untouched by the vibrant strokes of love's palette. The colors I once yearned to paint with have dried up, and my brushes stand stiff and unused.

But you, my dear, still have time. You hold in your hands the radiant colors of love and life, the brushes still pliant, the canvas still unmarked. Paint, dear heart, paint with the reckless abandon of a heart unfettered.

Dive into the sea of chances, swim with the current of risk. Let the waves of uncertainty wash over you. Life is a dance with unpredictability, a song sung in harmony with the unknown. Sing, my dear, sing with all your heart. Let your voice echo through the valleys of time, let it be heard by the stars that keep vigil in the night sky.

Don't end up like me, my dear, a relic of time, a ghost wandering the halls of regret. Live, dear heart, live as I have not. Let the pulse of life reverberate within you, let it resonate with the rhythm of love.

From this desolate shore of time, I extend my hand to you, imploring you to heed these words. Let them be your compass, your beacon, your guide.

Sincerely, from the melancholy whispers of time,

Your Older Self, Margaret