I'm obviously doing something wrong, I just don't know what.

     So much time had passed. What? Over two years? With that much time having passed without hearing from someone one would think that person was dead or forgotten.

But as I came home that night I saw that wrinkled envelope, that particular handwriting, I knew who the letter was from. Being how I am, though I let it sit on the table for the rest of the evening without giving it a second thought.

"Hey, it's me. I didn't know if you were still at the same adress. I'm kind of surprised you're still around. I guess you're thinking the same about me."

Before going to bed I opened the envelope; his very unique handwriting filling up almost every in of space on the page.   The kind of handwriting you have to get used to to be able to read.

"Not much, but yet alot has happened." He went on. I hated the way he wrote, always contradicting himself and never really explaining anything clearly. It's as if he spoke his very own language that he thought every one else knew. Not really an educated vernacular, more like someone trying to hide how truly ignorant he was.

"I have a job that I hate and I think I do it well, but it's hard to keep focused when only part of yourself is dedicated to what you're doing. The rest I have no idea where it is but it's not here."

He had found an office job somewhere closer to the city; something he thought he wanted but I think later realized it wasn't even worth that much.

"I'm still not worth much. I think I'm only worth minimum wage in these parts. Seems to be the only place I can be right now."

"She says I'm better than that place. Don't know if I believe her, hell I don't even know if I believe in myself."

"I've been tested and I have failed. Even though I do what I do well, technically I'm not qualified to do it. Do you know when was the last time I actually passed any sort of test? Shit, I can't even remember myself."

Much of what he's talking I had no idea what it was. That's the way he's always been, mostly rambling random words until something mildly coherent forms. That what he keeps and writes down, even if it doesn't make sense at the time.

"I'll leave you alone, I guess. I wasn't intending to write you a letter but here it is. Take it easy and, maybe one I'll feel brave enough to stop by."

It wasn't until I folded the letter back into the envelope that it didn't have a stamp or a return address for that matter. He had been here and dropped off the letter himself. Makes me think if he was still in the neighborhood when I got home. Maybe he's still pawing around the block aimlessly.

It seems I still can't do anything right...

This is a test of me coming back.

Of all the things that I left behind this is one I should have kept close by.