San Francisco, California
March, 2000

Dearest Samantha,

I know it has taken me almost a year to answer your letter. I won't apologize because I know you won't accept it. So I will start my response with questions: - When is it that we know for sure that we have made a mistake? Is it when we hurt deep inside not because of our deeds but because of our pride? Or is it when everything in the world seems to be in place and perfect harmony except for your troubled heart, which continues to beat in constant anxiety? Or is it when you realize you are not doing anything else with your time but trying to find someone to blame for your misfortunes?

I have been troubled, and anxious and, yes, my pride has been shattered. And yes, I have spent a lot of time trying to find someone to blame for all this. After all, it was not my fault that the whole company fell apart, that the whole stupid project was cancelled, and that the venture capitalists decided to pull out of the enterprise.

That was not my fault.

However, it was my mistake, and my mistake only, to be here, to take their proposal as a form of acceptance that staying in the shallow waters would be the safest way to get through life. It was my mistake to believe in what they said, in promises that sounded luring, beautiful, attractive and yet so vain, so farfetched, so unreal. I tried to straddle over the huge chasm of the new and old media, and ended up swallowed by the nothingness that fills the vacuum in between.

Is this the price I am paying for being fearful or is it the reward of the weak? All I wanted was to draw, to design, to be in constant touch with my creative side. I don't care about what they believe to be viable, or commercial, or marketable. I don't even want to be near anything that resembles that kind of pseudo-analytical mumbo jumbo. I just don't buy into it. Our generation came here to change the world, and, suddenly, the world has become so small, so close, so unimportant. The world became the next quarter numbers.

The sad part is that I have now lived through a couple of years in this company, and I realize I haven't made one friend. Not one single friend. They're all acquaintances: The guys and girls, and men, and women I see everyday, interact, share a cup of coffee, or a thought, or, eventually, a smile. They are nice, but they are not me, or you. Everything here seems so unnecessary to me these days, everything seems to be so disposable.

So it was with a renewed sense of joy that I retrieved your letter from the drawer on the right hand side of my desk, where it had been for 11 months. I opened it, and read it again, and again, and again. And every word, every thought -- so concise, so crisp -- brought me back in time to the things we talked about, to the secrets we shared. My heart was filled with longing, with wanting, with desire, with expectation, all the elements that define indispensability. And I missed you so much.

It's been a difficult year. And I know you may be mad at me for not immediately responding to your letter. But now, a year later, I am here, typing these words to you thinking that, despite my many efforts, my many attempts to stay away from you, you're still part of me. And you, who have always been irreplaceable, have now become indispensable. Would you ever let me in your world again?

Lots of love,


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