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This is a letter I wrote to you today. I wonder if you'll ever read it.

To Whom It May Concern,
I write to you in desperation, stranger. I must say that I have considered this option many times and found it hopeless, but I fear I am running out of time. Please, whatever I tell you, you must not repeat to anyone. I trust you with this information because I do not know you and you do not know me and because of that, we cannot betray one and other.

Stranger, I am restless. I feel ready to run down my street, away from everything I have ever known for something else, a thing I know nothing about but which grips me with an unreal passion. Something is calling to me just beyond my grasp. The daytime masks the urge to escape from a cage I'm not sure I'm in, but the night, the lovely, endless night seems to fuel this growing conflagration within me. I do not know what it is about the night that makes me dream such impossible dreams, but it does. The moon and the stars and the sweet sensation of the things darkness hides from me create an irresistible urge to escape. But escape from what? I'm in no chains, no shackles. My window is open and my door can be unlocked at my choosing. I am no one's prisoner. So why do I feel like I am bolted to this spot, unable to taste or see or feel what I know to be right in front of me? Why do I feel like this? I was hopeing that you would know, or at least share my distaste for the thought of another day in my invisible prison.

God help me, for I do not know what is happening to me.

Sincerely,
Mary.

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