Dear Destiny,
We need to talk. I can't take this back and forth; this uncertainty and fast reliances. I know you've been busy, but I think we should take some time for us, my Fate. We're up in the air, here, and nothing short of a compromise or fast decision will bring us the gravity we've been craving, hoping for so desperately. I don't need much to work with, but you aren't giving any to start, and this is a working relationship. By that, I mean that we don't fit. When shoved together in circumstance, you and I don't line up, don't create something new. We kind of mesh, and we'll have to work to make sure you and I don't just fall apart. I'm really sorry, Destiny. I've never been good with relationships so untangible like this. But, you see, neither one of us is moving forward, as people up in thick, metephor filled air tend to have troubles with, and that's a problem. I can't hold still, I fidget while I float, and I can't help but say that I'm still blaming you for getting us stuck up here. I know what you meant, Destiny, but hiding things from me like that is the helium to these paper balloons. Everything's so precarious, now, falling and tumbling down so as to be saved by reflexes of unlikely strangers. You can't count on these things, you can't assume things will fall into place because you knew how to knock them over. Life doesn't work that way, Destiny. Be rational.
Signed,
A Sunday Kind of Love
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