New Section - "Playing with creativity"

Over the years, I have created many different pieces of writing that try to tell a story. I'm really bad at writing long pieces, so I find most effective to write small pieces and make them as simple and as profound as possible. These different notes that I have created, I can't remember what inspired them. Perhaps the clues are in the pieces themselves; loss, sadness, happiness, love, fear--basic themes, whose events are lost but whose meaning remain. I will call these sections "Playing with creativity", and here is my first post titled "**NOTE 2**

**Note 2**

He found a letter as he was cleaning his bedroom. There had been a mess in his room for quite awhile, and cleaning it at this point in time seemed like a miracle. The white enveloped was black from all the dust that had collected over the years. He opened it wondering what it was about. This is exactly what it read:

Michael,

I don’t know when you will get this, but in the slight chance that you do I want to let you know that I love you. Not like friend love, you know, like between friends and such, but love—LOVE. I think it happened that time you let me have a dollar so I can get on the bus. I barely talked to you at that time, but I would see you around and wondered about you.

I wanna say that I hope you are completely not freaked about this confession. I wonder what would happen when you actually get this. I mean I replay the possibilities in my head. In one of those scenes, you actually find this heartfelt, so much so, that you run out the door cross each street, almost in danger of getting run over, get to my house, knock like a mad-man, and then when I open the door we exchange glances and then you kiss me. Of course, that is the optimistic one.

Anyway, I am leaving this underneath your bed, where I have come to know, through our awesome friendship, that you will never find it. It will be so close to you, but you will never see it. It is lost along with broken CD covers and those unfortunate shirts that end up under your bed that you will never see.

Goodbye,

Love always,

Tom.

He remained speechless in the same spot for two minutes. Outside the chidren were running and screaming. The neighbors in front were in their porches, watching the children play. He gently folded the letter, walked to his drawer and opened it. He took out a contact book of people he hand’t talked to in a long time. Some were friends that have gone off to college, others to war, and still others were friends that had he had a fallout with. He ran his fingers down the lettering tabs to the letter T, and opened it.