Friday, May 04, 2007

My Black Despair. To Fernando.


As much as I would like to "spit out my black despair", I feel as if I am not articulate enough to engage anyone (least of all you) in what would be mere, useless complaining. You need not fear losing me, friend; for you are one of the few people to whom I speak- in a verbal or written fashion. You help me to remmeber that life is worth articulating but only because I am living it. I don't know that life would be worth living if it wasn't articulated. And that is why I feel that most of my own life is not worth living.

But, I am not complaining, or sighing. I am only saying that things pile up around me and I try to tear them down- to look at them individually- but I am still mired in the memory of all those moments we shared, eagerly awaiting our turn to speak of something literary. It was in those few interactions that I understood the point of all that reading I had done, the point of interaction in general and I spend all these lonely afternoons and evenings wondering if I will find that with anyone else again.

When I write to you I feel I am reaching out for a long gone past instead of seeking out a future. But, I am only being morbid because I am alone. Your letters send me flying (even if only briefly) out of my black despair and I sing out my high hopes to only the sounds of your words echoing inside my skull. I feel again all the weight of possibility and how it is balanced so precariously on the edge of interaction.

I feel the distance I have come, the distance between us and honestly, it makes me long for a long walk with a whistling friend. I read Ulysses again and again and I envy his entourage. I envy those laughing friends I see skipping through the stone streets.

Forgive me for being blunt, for being a nag. It's just that I have lost so much and I don't know where to look to find it.



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