12th Avenue 45/123
Manhattan NY, 10020
Edgar Avenue 56
I don’t know why I’m writing this letter. Or whether or not I should be writing it at all. I won’t be able to change anything, anyways.
I sit here and think about us. What we used to do together.
The coffee I need to stay awake burns a little in my throat. I want to start crying.
Yes, the world is a very different place from the one we imagined in our childhoods.
You know, back in the day, when we were young, we could dream for hours about what the future would look like. We watched “Back to the Future” and “the Terminator”. We read “1984” and “ Do androids dream of Electric Sheep”. We listened to David Bowie and we dreamed of meeting Major Tom and Ziggy Stardust.
We were laying on the roof of that yellow bus somewhere out in the woods, looked at the stars and thought about whether or not there is life on Mars, about how the first aliens would arrive on Earth. You know, just like in E.T.
By the way, that bus, our bus, still stands there lost and abandoned in the woods.
We thought about the future, how by 2015 we would already have robots and flying cars and hoverboards and telephone-tv’s. Now we have smartphones and roomba’s and honestlyI would rather switch them out for the flying cars.
Back then you always said to me how I was going to be a writer, that I had a talent to play with words. That my first book was going to make me the youngest ever recipient of the Nebula Award and that I would have dozens of fans and that my book was going to be made into a Hollywood movie starring Molly Ringwald and Johnny Depp as the leads.
Look at me now. Columnist for a monthly female magazine. You know, the kind you always hated, the ones with tricks and tips about how to seduce men and be good in bed. Guess I do have talent, but in other areas.
Outside it is grey and cold and it feels like the air wants to cut your lungs. The cold light of the morning falls through my window. I can hear people talking, cars beeping, the music of the big city. I sit here behind a table bought in a Swedish shop and I am writing this letter to you. Using pen and paper, because there where you are right now they don’t have internet. I am not even sure whether or not you know what internet is.
My life is common and mundane, boring days that float by,coffee in the Starbucks every morning (that is a famous coffee chain) and getting drunk of Cosmopolitans and Martinis every Friday.
Like you can see I have changed my name. It was apparently too difficult to write beneath articles.
I was even married, for a while. Nice man, funny and a real joy to hang out with. All of his good parts – his sense of humor, his love for food, his general niceness – where finally sucked out, killed by Manhattan. By the grey giants with the glass eyes and the small office spaces that want to suck out your soul.
He finally could not bear it and…I still visit his grave every Saturday.
Then, on that day, I asked myself, what has happened and how did you become me ? What happened to that little rebel in ripped jeans, listening to AC/DC and Dead Kennedy’s, sneaking into the movie theater to watch Robocop ?
Back in the day, when I was young, I never imagined that life would turn out to be this way. That I would leave my birth home in Maine, that little house in a dead-end street of a small town hidden in the woods.
I miss my childhood. Why did it have to go away, together with that small house in Maine ?
And when did it happen ? When I had my first solicitation and they said I didn’t fit in their profile ? When I went to the university ? Or was it a slow process, piece by piece, until I couldn’t recognize myself in the mirror ?
Love, Margaret Green, yourself 30 years into the future.