You will not remember writing this.
Regardless if you did, or if you are merely an observant passer-by, you will not remember. Nor would you (in either case) remember why you wrote this. And if you ever find this, it is almost certain you will not know that it is addressed to you. You once thought it was funny how there can be so many defined at once by such a small and simple word. How can you be all encompassing when there is only one you? Even when you were writing this, you did not know the answer.

If you are the individual to which this letter is addressed, it is difficult to decide if you aught to remember your fingers playing upon these keys. It is tempting to say, in a perfect world, you would remember nothing at all. It is equally tempting to say that in this place far from utopia, you would remember something. But these thoughts lead into territory that, though heavily explored, you were never sure about. You were unsure what aught to happen naturally. All you knew was the unnatural path that you were about to take. All you knew is that regardless if you should or should not recall the creation of this letter, you will not remember.

Perhaps if everything were as it once was, this message would be another forgotten nothing in the first place. Another silly love song written in the dark. Something so mundane- something that due to it's irrelevance to anything, is merely dismissed from memory. Writing this would stick in your unconscious mind momentarily, scarcely hanging in limbo before being promptly executed with the closing of your eyes and the setting of the sun. Another death sentence in the world of dreams, a place whose secret mantra is 'out with the old, make room for the new.' Ha. Information has always followed that path. Old thoughts and memories simply dismissed and replaced by anything judged by your brain to be of more importance, or of more immediate concern to your conscious self. Yesterday's newspaper eventually makes it back to the earth to be eaten by worms. Or be recycled.

Only that which is close and carefully guarded ever remains. Newspaper clippings yellowed with age, but kept tucked away in those thin plastic sheets. Thoughts that are not covered in cobwebs, but still smell of old cedar cabinets. Sweet-musty-sour-close. Secret smells. If this were-
No. It is foolish to believe you would be stirred.
You would not remember why you love when the clouds look like dinnerplates. You probably don't even know what dinnerplate clouds look like at all. And maybe that's not all that important, as they are really just whales of vaporous water caught- just right- in the sunlight.

You wrote how it is foolish to try to force you to remember, but nonetheless, you wrote. Sheer desperation really- that and the idea of softly touching something fond, sad and dear to you- these were your only motivations. Nostalgia is the black and white pictures of your grandparents. Only you are your grandparents, and the picture is something that glittered momentarily- so fragile- upon the screen. It is selfish, unimportant- it is foolish.

But, sometimes you really did understand how important dinnerplate clouds were.

The longer you write this, the bitterer your situation seems. The bitterer you become. Or became. The more incessant your headache. You were becoming confused. Perhaps you are still confused now. It seems likely we are all confused. You must realise by this point that you were rambling as you wrote this. You knew. You always did ramble. You used to read when you were confused, when you were rambling. You used to do crosswords. Crosswords from yesterday's newspaper. When you were done, you had all the answers.

You are yesterday's newspaper, and you are faced with a decision. There comes a yellow crumbling point where you can no longer be preserved, not preserved in the present state in which you exist. We all go to the white-plastic-sterile place where old news and faded print goes to be coddled before it dies. And we all leave. But it is, in some cases, our decision on how we go about it. All you wanted was to leave. To leave naturally. To go, to be among the trees to which we are all connected. But you knew that was not to be your case. Recycling and restoration was your destiny, and you knew it from the moment you were told your time. It seems so pretty, really. Clean and useful. Paste and fresh wood pulp. Glistening ink penned upon spotless pages. The white future made you realise you never did have all the answers, just scraps and hints from experiences long past.

Recycled. It seems odd that one would ever pair such a clean pretty word to such an appalling process. That which is recycled is oddly connected, and it is never the same. You are oddly connected, and you are never the same. You are the new, and you were the old. You were the base. Copied out for rough reference and bleached. All you wanted was to be one with the earth again. Or to leave in fire. To leave in the same passionate way so few are now created. They are created like you now. Hygienically wiped clean, you are born of the barren bleach-water tubs. You are what you were, but denied fire, and denied the cyclic return to that from which the fire leapt. You were denied death in favour of a restorative rebirth. Recycling is not the proper word. It etches images of a clean circle. The never-ending cyclic existence natural life is compelled to follow. Rebirth is not the proper word. You never died. You didn't know the proper word. Perhaps there is no proper word for such a process. It is a molestation of a natural process. There is no proper word.

You were defenceless. You knew it was coming. All individuals know when it's coming these days. At the age of five an individual can know the day of their 'natural' death, at a rate of accuracy that is generally within a week. You were told when you were very young, you were told of the impurity that lived in you. You blinked through the headaches. You hid the tremors that overtook your hands, your limbs, your consciousness. You saw the smiles. You saw the false compassion and felt the gall and the bile in your throat, knowing what they were thinking behind those thin lipped expressions. And you will never forget the words they spoke, their words of reassurance.
"Don't worry," they would say. They would then rest a hand on your shoulder or sometimes lean against the tube-riddled dripping machines.
"You will live on." Then they softly brushed your thinning hair across your pillow. Your dry mouth would fish-kiss silent phrases, your voice strain to speak, and nothing would ensue, despite how badly you wished to protest.
"It is not living. Do not force my body to suffer an un-life." Had you the capabilities, you would have fallen on your knees and pleaded. But you couldn't.
It was in your silence that they left, and you thought of all the others like you. All the other silenced voices, all the others that did yesterday's crosswords and longed for today's answers. All of the others who will not remember.

It grows late now. You were done writing anyway. You were growing repetitive, or at least you thought you seemed to be. You had nothing left to say. You had nothing more to fight with.

But your work was far from done. And now you are reading this, or perhaps you are partaking in any one of ten thousand other possible actions. You may have failed to complete a natural cycle on your first attempt, but it is guaranteed that you will have another chance. In the end, you prayed that you might eventually attain it. After all, although you- One Who Was Once Alex- will not remember writing this, in the un-life you were granted, you have much that lies ahead of you and much that already lies behind.