The smallish envelope fell to the floor, bouncing on its end before settling face up on the shallow carpet. My hands stopped in mid-air, holding the two books from between which the envelope escaped. One was a biography of the surfer Mickey Dora, the other a Thai cookbook I’ve used once. The books hovered above my head as I looked down and tried to read the black, Sharpie writing on the envelope but it is upside down.

I’ve emptied two medium-sized plastic tubs full of books recently rescued from storage onto the floor and divided them into a half-ass sorting system until they can be placed on the shelves. Besides books the tubs contained magazines, maps and plenty of loose pieces of paper collected over the years. That a piece of paper slipped from the books didn’t surprise me, but when I finally picked up the envelope, the writing on it did.

OPEN 10 Dec 2015

It looked familiar and foreign. My brain simultaneously thinking “Oh, I remember this” and “What the fuck is this?” I put the books off to the side and rubbed the envelope between my fingers. It felt like the piece of paper inside was too large for the envelope and was folded over. Some remembrance of writing it returned and I know there is a letter addressed to my future self inside. I think.

I vaguely remember writing it in California. I know things weren’t going too well at the time. I know I was having a hard time getting over a woman I had recently dated. I know there was a war going on inside me between what I wanted to be doing and what I was doing. I know I probably set a deadline for myself to finish the novel (and like the many deadlines set before, not met). I know it probably has an encouraging tone for my future self. I know my life has changed significantly since writing it. And yet besides the latter I don’t really KNOW any of this.

I can’t remember when I wrote it. Was it supposed to be opened after six months or a year? Either way it is over eighteen months old. Eighteen months seems like a lifetime ago.

Instead of opening it, I placed it on the small dining room table. Strangely I’m neither afraid to open it or filled with curiosity. It just seems right to let it sit for a few days. I have picked it up several times, not with the intention of opening it, but rubbing my fingers along the paper. Staring at the writing looking for clues. I’m no closer to remembering writing it as I was when it made its escape.

However, tomorrow I am opening it.