It was the summer of my 16th year when I lost all faith in humanity. No single event is responsible for this tragedy, but instead it was the constant deterioration of the shield that protected my soft heart. This was the year when my innocence was chiseled away like one of Michelangelo's blocks of marble; but instead of leaving me with the statue of David, a jagged, unfinished rock took its place.

Before I tell my story, I would like to take this opportunity to justify my malice towards mankind. I am not a pessimistic person, but something within me had snapped that year. I had seen one too many innocent people treated unjustly, one too many evil people given everything they desired, and one too many good-hearted people stand by and watch as the chaos persisted around them.

Don’t get me wrong. I had an inkling that there were some good people left clinging to life jackets as they aimlessly floated through society’s sea of sins. They were the ones who had avoided inhaling the foul air that surrounds us. They were still pure. But others had been so long contaminated that they no longer craved the liberating feeling of deeply inhaling a fresh spring breeze. The line between right and wrong was hazy for them. But I believed in the few who were still clear-minded. I knew I had to. After all, humans were said to be this epic race of dreamers and doers and lovers and fighters coming together to create a lasting legacy for the nobility of mankind. However, it was “what foul dust floated in the wake of [their] dreams that temporarily closed out my interest in the abortive sorrows and short-winded elations of men.”

Sure there were good things in my life such as the fact that I was doing well in school. But the A’s that came in were like a shot of ecstasy - ephemeral and shallow - solely suppressing the angst long enough so that I could do it again the next week. What I needed was a shooting star in the eternal night that encased me. Something to hope for. But even that was too fleeting. I needed a lifeboat to carry me from the rough sea to the warm sand. I needed a solid ground to rely on.

And so I ventured into one of the many forgotten drawers in my desk and searched for an answer in the most unlikely of places. Among paper clips, old phone cases, and a collection of $2 bills, I found the treasure I’d been searching for: the bucket list I made when I was ten years old. It may have been creased along the middle, torn at the edges, and tinted a not-so-pearly white, but the childlike handwriting was still clearer than ever. Among all of the immaterial dreams to “Run a bakery” or “Set a world record,” I uncovered a gem. “Write a letter to a random address and see if they reply.” It was simple yet extravagant in the limitless opportunities it disguised.
So I sat at my desk: a blank piece of paper in front of me, a pencil to my right, and a third world war raging on inside my head. The pressure within me fought outward while the silence of my room offered no retaliation. It felt as if a ticking time bomb had been implanted within me - one wrong move and I was finished. Playing it safe, I decided to keep it simple. Leaving out any details about myself or my struggle, I asked for reassurance that there were “decently good-willed people” left in the world. I told this complete stranger that their reply, or lack of, would mold my malleable opinion regarding mankind into an impenetrable notion. Without contemplating the disappointment I was likely to face, I signed the letter ~J, chose a random address from the phonebook, and licked the envelope shut. I then rode a mile on my bike to the town post office, simply to ensure that it ended up in the right place. Looking back, I’m glad I chose the address I did, for it would have been a long, miserable life if I had chosen the house where a bitter misanthrope resided.

After about a week and a half - enough time to turn my childlike excitement into restlessness - it came. On any ordinary day, my mom’s stack of mail would’ve consisted of bills, junk mail, and the occasional Macy’s catalog. But as I walked past her at the kitchen counter, an abnormality peeked shyly out from within the stack. My eyes grew wide and my fingertips tingled as something so unattainable was suddenly right in front of me. But I couldn’t let her see. This envelope, no matter what was in it, was mine. It was the antidote to cure my raging case of cynicism. I needed it. So, I casually picked up the stack and shuffled through it. When my mom asked if there was “Anything good?” I replied, “Eh, nothing special.” And that was the truth. Because as I left the worthless pile of clutter on the counter, the most special thing in the world sat quietly in my possession.
Liquid nerves covered my palms, leaving them clammy as I gripped the letter. Not just a letter, but the Rosetta Stone that could translate my loss of faith into a forgotten call for greatness.

A hint of doubt stumbled out from the dark alleyways of my mind, drunken and making commotion solely to be a part of this monumental moment. But the anticipation was too loud; the fear of disappointment didn’t stand a chance.

My humble finger broke the bind, unleashing a world of opportunities from its bounds, free to impress anyone willing to listen. I pulled out the letter and my healing began.

The elegant yet practical half-script handwriting rolled across the paper like waves on the sand. In the fine print I could see into the life of the person who had written it; her grammatical perfection told me she was educated, the loops of her “y”s said she was bubbly at heart, and the overall fluidity of her ink from one letter to the next told me her thoughts were well put together. Although I know my judgments may be wrong, I like to think not. The person I just described is someone I admire, and that makes the ideas on paper far more meaningful. As if she had read my mind, in the second paragraph of her letter, she wrote, “Always know that things are never really as they seem.”

This was impressive, but one section in particular hit me like a fly on the freeway.

“So I leave you with these thoughts.
Always help others.
Follow your dreams.
Remember change is not always bad.
Be true to yourself.
Follow your instincts.
Love unconditionally.”

Upon reading this, warmth surged through my being as if liquid hope had been thrust upon me by the syringe of life. I knew then that these were guidelines by which I would never stray. Although short and simple, I could feel each word pulling me closer to shore, carrying me swiftly against the riptide.

I often ponder whether or not this person knew of the life changing effect her writing had on me. Maybe she believed it was one-dimensional - simply patterns of ink on paper. But in reality, her words had the power to rid themselves of the burdensome paper that immured them and come alive beside me. They became my companions. I saw them in the kindness of kids at the park when they offered a helping hand. I saw them in my grandmother’s wrinkled eyes as she kissed my cheek and told me she loved me. I saw them in the sweat of the basketball player who knew he was destined for greatness.

And so she left me, standing in the ruin of my former self. My legs were shaky as I glanced around, unsure of what came next. But as the smoke cleared, standing bold and alone were myself and a single letter...
~M