Dear Anthone John,
I know we don't know each other, and we've never met. But there's something about you and your music that's captured my imagination for years. It's hard to describe, but it feels like a connection that goes beyond words. I know this sounds crazy, but I'm writing this letter to tell you that I've decided we need to break up. I know you probably won't read this, but I had to get this off my chest. Let me explain.
I'm taking a risk by writing this letter, but I'm sharing it anyway. So, Anthone John, here goes. I'm laying it all out like an atlas. By now, you might be wondering who Steve is. He's my husband, and he knows about you. Let me be clear - he's not thrilled about our "relationship," but he's not going to come after you with torches and pitchforks. I might be in trouble, though.
I want to be clear about something else.
When I first heard your music, I was smitten. I listened to it on repeat, through good times and bad. When I got a flat tire on a busy interstate, I waited for a boyfriend who never showed up. Instead, you were there with me. You sang to me, and your words resonated in a way I'd never experienced before. I felt a sense of connection, a sense of intimacy. When I realized the boyfriend wasn't coming, I knew I could count on you. So I called a state trooper instead. You may not have been there physically, but you were there in spirit. That moment will always be etched in my memory as the time you and I got to know each other in a way that transcends physical presence. Since then, our relationship has evolved and grown.
One day, the music playing in the bar was new to me. I quickly recognized your voice, and I listened intently. Your music carried me away from the musty smell of the bar, the rattling windows, and the stock-checking bartender. It transported me to another place, a place where I could be myself. I studied your voice, imagining what the singer might look like. And then, as if by magic, the TV above the bar changed from CNN to MTV, and you were there - your face, your voice, everything. You were singing the very song that had so captivated me.
As I studied in the corner of the bar, a familiar song came on the television. I turned my attention to the screen, and saw you singing the very song that had comforted me in the past. I was mesmerized by the way you moved and the emotions in your voice. It was as if you were singing directly to me, right there in the bar. As the song ended, you looked directly into the camera and locked eyes with me. Time seemed to slow down, and your voice was filled with emotion as you sang of love and devotion.
Suddenly, my textbook slipped from my hands and fell to the floor.
I didn't bother picking up the book. Instead, I kept my eyes fixed on you, transfixed by your song and the emotions it evoked. You had become more than just a musician to me; you were a friend, a confidant, a source of comfort. I'd shared this story with my husband in the past, but he always grew tired of hearing about you. I also shared it with a student of mine, hoping to connect with them in a meaningful way. In my classroom, I'd hung a poster of you on the wall, a picture of you lying in a field of flowers, gazing dreamily into the distance.
When a student came in to ask about homework, they found me staring at the poster, my head resting on my hand. They froze, unsure of what to do. I fumbled to explain how your voice and music had the same effect on me as a sudden drop in barometric pressure. I described how your eyes, the color of sky and metal, made me feel like I could accomplish anything. The student began to back away, clearly feeling awkward. I waved them back and tried to explain how I felt connected to you, despite the fact that we'd never met.
I used to listen to your music when I needed to relax or escape from reality. Sometimes I even relived old memories, imagining myself back in the places where I first heard your music. I remembered what it felt like to be young and carefree, even though those days are long gone. I thought about all the changes that had happened in my life since then, both good and bad. The memories were bittersweet, but I couldn't help but feel grateful for the experiences I'd had.
In this moment, I realized that your music had been a catalyst for me to see my own strength. The places I visited with your music playing in the background weren't as important as I thought they were. The true power came from within me. I learned to appreciate the strength I'd gained over the years, the wisdom I'd acquired, and the memories I'd made. I felt a sense of freedom, knowing that I didn't need you or your music to guide me. I had the power to find my own way.
Thank you for everything you've given me, Anthone John. Your music has been a source of inspiration and strength for me over the years. I'm grateful for the memories I've made with your songs playing in the background. But now it's time for me to move on and find my own path. I know I have the strength to navigate life's challenges on my own. So, while I'll always appreciate your music, it's time to say farewell.
