I wrote this while I was in a sort of dream-like state, so maybe that's why it's so weird. I intended for it to be allegorical, but I'm not sure anymore.

Deare Live,

i dont nOW woh you are at leest not reely that well. iM hopin yu can teEll mEe SumThengaBout you. i wants tu noW wha yu are causE i caneT be port uv yu inLess i nOw cause im confused aBout yu if yu are a pursen wich yu porbaly aretn. i gust wont tu now wi yu are an wi thing ares that way.
thakns,

The words, scribbled in crayon on a piece of notebook paper crumpled out of view, as it was stuffed into the bottle in his other hand. At first, it refused to fit, and tore against the edge of the Sprite bottle. With a final jab of his thumb, and a soft noise like a pebble being thrown into a lake, it finally dropped to the bottom. The child lifted the bottle for a last look at his message, green from the bottle. Holding the bottle in front of him, he tore across the shore, small rocks, as sharp as remembered wrongs flew up into his mother's sandals and cut his tender flesh.

Just before reaching the frowning shoreline, the droopy, yellow sandals caught on a rock, sending him sprawling onto the gravel bed. The pain in his knee and embarrasment he felt when he heard laughter from behind him did not hurt near as much as the moment the bottle left his hand.

The scabs over his fear suddenly broke. What if he wrote it wrong? Why didn't he just ask for help writing it? Then, the attention turned to his scratched knee. With blood pouring from him, and worry pulsing into him, the little boy began to cry.

The bottle and its precious cargo, was leading a different path.

With a soft plop, it dived into the water, which looked like a stage specially prepared for a tragic play. At first, it dragged along the bottom, the riverbed sneezing up dirt around it as though angry to be disturbed. Indeed, this observance was first made by the note, which had now gained a feeble life of its own. The bottle shifted its wait, and, grabbing hold of an arrogant current, began to drift.

Dark, polluted water grumbled and dented the plastic bottle, and when it dipped suddenly, dirt-filled liquid rushed in so excitedly, you would think it just found a forgotten river. The water sloshed against plastic and paper, through faint, filtered sunrays and quick-coming night, and the child's question began to tear. Trees, their skeletons, now dark with leaves contrasted greatly against the clearing skies, could only be seen when the water trapped inside the bottle subsided a little.

Occasionally, if you looked very hard, and the water was low, you might be able to see a small, fishing house amid the trees. The sight of these houses seemed to remind the bottle of its mission, and it almost seemed to press its plastic frame a little harder against the current.

Storms came. For many nights, raindrops the size of a small heart's tears drummed against the plastic. The sunlight provided some comfort, but, after all, clouds don't move in front of the sun, the sun moves behind clouds. Finally, it could have been years or it could have been blinks later, the rain fell away. By now, the note was nothing more than a tattered tissue paper floating in a puddle at the bottom of the bottle.

For many more days, the bottle drifted on, pressing its way through the sins of the storm. The note, legible only to a psychic, let its sad form twist with the water left in the bottle. The trek across rivers continued without innterruption...until a wind filled the frozen atmosphere; a sound like a soft, continuous sigh. The bottle, finally jerking loose from the debris left by the storm, began to flow faster. The sound also grew faster...and louder. Finally, it became so loud and the current so quick, the bottle vibrated furiously. Water spit and bit at the already pitiful paper. It twisted wildly, and was wedged into the cap of the bottle. A second wave knocked it back into the back of the bottle. There was a moment of silence, and then there was weightlessness.

The child, now older, was walking across the frowning shoreline, when something caught his eye: a battered and beaten Coke bottle floating in an old tire. He lifted the bottle and shook it. Hearing the soft noise of paper against the walls, he began to wonder. Could it be...With a quick twist, the cap was off, and a tattered bit of paper fell out. He began to move faster now...unrolling the paper, and tearing it in the process, and excitedly ran his eyes over the answer he had been waiting for all this time. It was written in the sloppy handwriting of a small child, etched onto crumpled notebook paper with crayon:

Deare Lifing,

i nOW woh you are at leest reely that well. yu askd if i can teEll Yu SumThengaBout me. furst i wants tu noW whi yu wont tu now causE im alL-rEedy yurs wIle i Last an yur not mi ne wile yu last but ill tell yu aniway. i am yurs but yu are not mien. i am not shrt but yu are not tiny. i m not cuntrolld but yu dont hav a stearin weel. i hav a weel, but yu hav the hands

wow, really engaging, crafted beautifully.

but uh... yeah... I'm kinda confused about the actual letter(s)

Yeah...they are sort of strange, I'm not even sure I understand them, lol. If I ever do, I'll try to change it, but until then, I'm stuck.

k well...uh...you do that.