Letter to an Anonymous Friend
Not jealous, but sad that I lack the talent you possess. When you do it right; when you do it well; when you make the cut, I am truly happy for you. But so disappointed in myself. I am not working hard enough. I am not the best. Why do we have the desire and love for music implanted in us that could never possibly match our skills and service to the art? It seems aimless to slave over something to which you will never be feel atoned. I take delight in your success as I would in my own and know you are proud of such honors. I will not try to compete with you, only with myself.
Letter to a Dying Love
Do you know what saddens me? That I can barely feel it anymore. I know, but my capacity to feel emotions has waned. I don’t feel anything at all. Not even physical pain. I will never mail this letter, and you will never see it, so I will say just what I feel.
You say you’re madly in love with me. How can that be? I am this untalented, intolerable, unlovable creature. You’re one of my best friends but still know so little about me. I care about you so much, but I cannot be with you. I wish I could. I wish I could find something in myself that would go to the side of a dying man-child; so alone with only death and good death to comfort you- yet so optimistic and loving.
And to think you actually pity me! Me, surrounded by people seeking to get close, and I won’t let them. Music alone fills my soul where only emptiness can survive. Even now: when I find that what I have in music I don’t have at all. I still alienate myself. And how many times have I written “I” and “me?” You always say how selfish you are for even thinking or caring about when you will die. Yet here I am, wishing and hoping and praying with my whole being that I’ll die. Write soon. It’s been months and all I can do is write letters your eyes will never see. Please write me. I am lonely.
Letter to my Conscience
I just took drugs from a friend. Or rather, I just accepted drugs from a friend. They were red and white Tylox. He went to class high. I flushed mine down the toilet, which felt a lot like ripping my arms off. I wanted it so badly but I was scared. What if I got caught? We’ve already had two O.D.s on campus this year and I hadn’t eaten anything all day. Was it worth getting kicked out of the arts school- the only place I have a chance to belong and flourish? No.
It was his last one. A gift. A twisted, wicked gift. He needs me like he needs the drugs. And I need him to need me. I’ve been there. I have defeated the part of me that has to have that. I’ve toiled with morals and right and wrong. I’ve done it when I knew it was wrong, and I wanted them more than anything when I didn’t have them. So I know, and I know there’s a reason. But that was my test and I overcame it. When I went through it, I wanted someone to help me but no one would. So, here he is, right in front of me, all in black and pierced and stoned… and what do I do?
Letter to a Phantom of the Past
The pill you gave me, yesterday- I didn’t take it. I’ve warred with drugs and won. But you… what are you running from? Because, no matter what it is, you will never, ever get far enough away where they can’t find you, and you’ll never be so fast that they cannot catch you. But feel free to run to me, and together we can fight.
Your words were that I would “go numb.” It’s a problem when pain goes away and is replaced by nothing. Nothingness is the worst feeling in existence. Though everyone else might desert you, I will always be here for you. I know too well what it feels like to be alone and would do anything within my power to help you.
I’m such a wretched creature, polluted and corrupted with lies. Trying to conceal my own pain by pretending to get close to others. Immersing myself in others’ pain so that mine seems distant. I can’t be alone in silence anymore but I can’t stand the noise when I’m with others.
What kind of sickness is this? Who do I think I’m fooling? Only myself. Plunging myself into “sickness” when I should be concerned with my sin. My sin: that means by which I separate myself from God. I do it, and I don’t think I can change. I don’t know if I’m willing to give up the amount of pleasure it brings for the guilt. I want to be pure.
Letter to God
Why is it so hard? Why does it hurt to say yes and hurt to say no? Why does forgiveness dredge up so much pain? I do not understand. Why am I told that I will never be anything, that my looks are unpleasant, and that I am worthless? Why do I believe these things? You created me perfectly, You say. So why aren’t I? I have so many questions and so few answers if that’s what You’d like to call them.
The sun is never bright enough, the night is never dark enough, laughter doesn’t last long enough, and tears never fulfill their duty. You say rejoice in all things yet I can rejoice in nothing. My only pleasures are my only pains, for you weep something lost that you once had, and take joy when you get something you had not. Many things I wish to find, like happiness, love, joy, peace, and holiness. But because my heart has grown so accustomed to this life, I fear I search in vain. Who am I to question You?
Letter to the United Methodist Church
So Ted and I hung out together. So Ashley was ten minutes late. So I left because you wouldn’t let me be free in my worship to God. And when you lied about me, said that I spread rumors about your family, it only showed how smart it was to leave. But when Ted said, “They don’t want me to sit with you,” I knew they all hated me. Every last one of them abhorred me, and it’s a real wake-up call. Why can’t they just leave me alone?
When you said, “You need to pray,” it wasn’t because I wasn’t praying; I was already praying. I was already praying for you. So what if I left and became closer to God. Isn’t that the mission of your organization? Sticks and stones. What are you afraid of? That I’m going to corrupt him and make him a real Christian who follows the works of Christ and not some hateful hypocrite? And this whole creature I call me- I’m whole because I’m with God. This hole in me is there because of a sin that I can’t get away from. A private sin you know nothing about.
Persecution runs rampant in a church where forgiveness and acceptance are the reason we’re there. And to steal that right of the freedom to love God is unacceptable. So when the anger passes, I will pray that God changes something in your hearts and that you never attempt to take from anyone else *The right to worship God *The right to love God *The right to fellowship with God *The right to receive love from Him
Letter to my Conscience
For every sin there’s an explanation- a reason you’re turning away from God. This sin that separates me from Him is self-destructive; running from what I’m looking for. And don’t think I don’t know that it’s my fault. He says, “Seek first the kingdom of God and ALL shall be added.” So God I will seek and love, but keep from sin.
Letter to my Mouth
You fail me. You defile and degrade everything I stand for, making my true words seem invalid. You place unholy kisses on unworthy bodies and curse men with the same tongue with which you praise God. I wish I could tear you out of my face. But the mouth is part of the soul; the part that shouldn’t ever come out. The part I wish did not exist in the first place. So I gave up much of the world that was ruining me and want you to go away as well. You seem to have no trouble saying these ridiculous, cruel things, yet you cannot clearly speak those opinions which are so important to me. If you will not speak just and honest words, then say nothing at all.
Letter to my Parents
It’s not your decision. Not only is it my voice and my gift, but you have no right to tell me how to use it ESPECIALLY when you don’t really know what you’re talking about. And… you don’t.
Beautiful
So maybe I’m not pretty. Maybe I’m not beautiful or even pleasant to look at, but I have intelligence. Technically “genius” intelligence according to I.Q. but also a passion for philosophy and a love for learning, which is more than just being smart. However, you cannot be physically attracted to a mind, and intelligence brings a great burden, doesn’t it? I am able to know that I am not beautiful. Knowing hurts more than anything- other people knowing. People say that looks are not important but it’s so obvious that they are.
What a fool I’ve been. Believing without looking. I’ve made an idiot of myself parading around like I deserve attention. Is it some sort of sick joke with these countless guys trying to get my phone number? If I don’t give it to them, are they taunted that they couldn’t even get a number from me? Or are they just blind and warped? I don’t understand. Lies- that must be what people do for fun. Ryker was the first to tell me I was beautiful. He lied. Then Chris. He lied. Who else beyond that? Johnny? He just doesn’t know any better. “Nothing God creates is ugly.” Ugly in whose eyes? Maybe not in God’s, but certainly in everyone else’s. I’m not pretty but I’m not ugly. I’m plain. Almost sweet.
Letter to my Pockets
I wish I could sleep forever and never wake up. I love that sweet interval between dawn and daylight. School is the only place where I’m happy, or maybe it’s just entertained. Killing myself just for the pleasure of it. Then, come weekend, I can no longer enter that sanctuary of fellowship with God. There is a place between the world and Heaven where holiness takes away all consciousness so that you are not aware of reality.
The further away from God I am, the more I do things that separate me from Him. This world is too much. It’s so fake and superficial and deceiving. The world is my addiction. My only pleasure and ultimately my destruction which I seemed, until recently, to accept without question. I believe I am being somewhat distracted in youth group by all the people who hate me, so I will take responsibility for my worship and go only to Sunday meetings. I want nothing to do with them.
I Want to be Pure
It makes me better, in my own mind. More devoted than everyone else unwilling to offer burnt sacrifices of their own flesh. Though I know I am a loser and a slacker, that’s okay because I am deeper and weaker and yet I still survive. I am not yet sure if it is all worth it. Being a failure, will I fail over and over again? Will I stand at Heaven’s gate and wait? Or only get to see them from the inside? I am hopeless and worthless and do not deserve God.
Humans: ZZZZZZZ BORING
People bore me. I just don’t understand why they think that everything they say is so vital to my life. That’s what journals are for: the shit no one cares about. I guess that’s why I don’t like “sharing my feelings.” Why should they? Silence is so precious now. In a world of jets, metal, bass boost, and rush hour, it’s so rare and priceless that people don’t even miss it. Why should I talk to other people? If I can’t solve my own problem, how could they possibly do it for me? I mean, you can’t honestly expect them to keep it a secret, can you? This is the information age!
But I listen anyhow- part of some strange dying cult of people who actually keep their fucking mouths shut. A secret keeper. I risk being thought of as stuck up for a little bit of respect. So I just listen to all the nothing that people tell me because they know I’d never tell another soul. And I have the dirt on everyone- at school AND at church. In the name of dignity I will endure being called a bitch. I am at peace with myself.
Explanations and Grievances
More and more I find myself searching for something I know I will never find. My heart warned me but pleasure made me distant. My eyes were too busy luring him to me to care. My lips placing kisses on an unworthy body. Pulling on ears, earrings, lips; tongue seducing him with lies and dancing. Making mock confessions of innocence. I was his plaything and he had been mine. But in those moments when goose-bumps erotically trickled down my body… I felt alive. When he left, I knew I hadn’t wanted him; I wanted love. The pain of being just another one- and him so cheapened and me so whorish; it was too much. Physical pain was needed to atone for these physical sins. I am branded for life.
Letter to my Will Power
Reading the Bible is one of those things that you really don’t want to do until after you’ve done it. All I know is that since I’ve started reading it every day at lunch, my life is going better. I have more patience, more compassion, and feel a sense of stability. I’m not saying that life is perfect but I feel I can efficiently deal with it now. But as I am getting closer and closer to God, I find more and more of my friends don’t know Him at all. The thing is, they’ve had so many “Christians” mistreat them that they no longer believe. I wish I could do something, anything, but they won’t listen. I try to use my life to glorify God.
I really feel that I’m going to be a missionary here. Only, I’m still not very well-versed, and I’m still working on my hypocrisy, and I don’t always do the right thing. My heart tells me that the only thing I can do is continue growing in Christ and become a light in the darkness. I have a yearning to ask them exactly why they don’t believe. Not to debate it, but to sort of take a survey. I have to be willing to let them insult me and my religion and defend myself and God without saying anything to offend them. Part of me wants to shake the dust off my feet but I just can’t do that.
Letter to a Dying Friend
You have helped me see God. You have revealed Death. You have uncovered parts of myself I abandoned long ago. You said this of me, “Oh my beloved, you are as beautiful as the lovely land of Jerusalem, and how you capture my heart. Look the other way, for your eyes have overcome me. Your hair, as it falls across your face; your teeth are white and perfectly matched. Your cheeks matched loveliness behind your hair. You, my dove, my perfect one, are the only one among them all without an equal.” Song of Solomon 6:4-9 And I, simply and profoundly and absolutely without hope, love you.
I love you because you are strong. I love you because you are humble. I love you because you are beautiful. I love you because you are dying. I love you because you won’t let me tell anyone about your condition. I love you because you can’t dance. I love you because you’re poor. I love you because you’re not very smart. I love you because of your faith in God. I love you because your eyes are so big and blue I’m afraid I’ll fly away when I look into them.
I love you because I can’t tell you that; it would hurt us both. I love you because you misspell words when you write me letters. I love you because you think I have it worse than you. I love you because I can’t have you. I love you because you tell me guys are dogs and to be careful. I love you because you love me. I love you because we can never be together, no matter how deep our feelings run.
I thought I could not love at all, until you. I love you for all that you are and all that you yearn to become and never will be. I love you because you look at me like that. And when I look into your eyes, I see the universe unveiled by a light that surely cannot exist in our world. I see past pain and strength.
I love you because you showed me God and who I’m supposed to be in Christ. I love you because you call me “dove.” I love you because those are three words I’ll never hear from your lips. I love you because I believe you will be my guardian angel when you are gone. I love you because I know Death will steal you away before I can have you, and because my first time kissing you will be when you are laid low. Please God, I can’t afford to lose him now.
To Be Loved
I have never understood why people are so mean. Why are people so mean to me? Why do guys play games with my head and why do I let them? Pain is a twisted addiction. Here I am, surrounded by people who are ‘different,’ like me. But still I pull away from those who would be best for me. The only person I want to be close to is too popular for me. Too pretty- and too dark for someone already as dark as I am.
I want him. I want his hair and his water-cut body. I want his sharp teeth. He could understand. He may even find something in me worthy of his attention. But last time he pretended he had, and when I found out it wasn’t true, I lost all confidence. He sat and lied straight to my face just to see my reaction. I actually believed him. I’m such a moron. He manipulated me, and look at me running back to him. He can do with me what he wants. He can treat me however he wishes; he can use me just like he did last time- just as long as he lies so well.
Letter to God
I’m on the threshold of good and evil right now. I’m running back to You, but my old ways are calling to me. I don’t want to go but I have to get away. I think that maybe if I come back to You, You will teach me how to be holy. But I don’t want to be good. I want to take drugs and fuck some guys and slit my wrists. But I want to be pure and holy and good. I am not anything. It stresses me out. I am too busy trying to be perfect while craving evil.
Raven
I know your name, but who are you? I see you slink to the same corner every day for lunch, which you do not eat, surrounded by grey concrete. A bird of prey? A hunter? I love to watch your fingers gliding over the strings of your guitar. I can never hear it. You wear only black to complement your pale skin and dark hair. You play your guitar, lost in thought. I have yet to see you actually speak to anyone but I know you have good friends who would die for you and who have your blood in them. Why do I care?
Letter to a Dying Friend
Back and forth, yes and no. I know that I am not going to see you for a long time. I fear I will end up hurting you- for which I would never be able to forgive myself. I don’t want to make you a scapegoat for my tears. I don’t want to use your death like that. I don’t want to cheapen it. You’re so much better than me. I don’t deserve anyone as good as you. I’m afraid of my feelings for you; feelings that I’m terrified to even experience. Because they’ll never amount to anything- we can never be together.
I need a distraction. I know I’m supposed to be the strong one. I’m not supposed to ever think about myself and instead focus my attention on you. But I find myself so lonely when you’re not here- and so guilty for even noticing. I’m so selfish, and while I’m wishing for meaning you’re not even asking for more time! I don’t know how to pour myself into others or submit to God’s will. All I do is vain and all that I am is conceit.
Regarding the Human Race
No one is funny anymore. We regress each year to people with less humor and less humanity. We’ve become afraid of ourselves, of our feelings, and of failing. We are pushed to become the best of the best. Laughing doesn’t matter in the “real world.” It’s not that I don’t think they’re funny; it’s just that no one puts in the effort anymore. No one tries to brighten someone’s day. We have become cynical, distrustful, serious prudes! But we are not heartless. Cold and fearful, yes, but that only comes from the lack of love experienced by a generation raised with “It’s 9pm - Do you know where your children are?” PSAs.
We have robots that teach themselves to walk and things- so many things: dolls that do pee pee and flashy cars and sports and TV cable satellites big houses and swimming pools, things we grab blindly groping our way through life in the dark. Our technology has surpassed our humanity. Sadly, it has not advanced as much as we like to think it has. Are we willing to admit that it is our humanity that is lacking in stature? Life means nothing anymore, and the most technologically advanced things we have made were intended to end the lives of others. We worship a cult of technological advances and entertainment as God sits silently and waits.
Letter to Humanity
I wish I were beautiful and strong and holy and perfect. Whine whine whine. I sit and feel sorry for myself; not like there’s anything I can do about it. So I am selfish and vain and quite frankly, very silly. I know I shouldn’t care but I suppose it’s some kind of evolutionary nature. I don’t need it to do God’s work, nor do I need it to succeed in academics or music. And how sad it is when we find out what we truly are. That no matter how good we are, we will never be good enough. Perfection becomes an obsession. And when we find out that we are not what we thought we were, it shatters every dream and wish.
Humans are made of these things. To shine, to be loved, to be fulfilled. We believe the only way we can be fulfilled is to become divine. And of course, we die. We all die. We all are eventually forgotten. Eternity is a farce, and holiness an unattainable goal. But we keep striving blindly to achieve something- anything to keep us busy. When will we figure it out? Wishes are empty and dreams are worthless if you have such a naïve mindset. Strive not for fame but for worth. Look not for faultlessness but forgiveness. Seek not glorification but love. The Lord warns us of these things.
Letter to Chris Miller
I am amused easily. I love lots of things about life; rainy beaches are my most treasured. I don’t even know why I’m writing this. It’s just that I’m so starved of companionship, and you are unlike anyone I’ve ever met. It does not frighten me to be alone, like it used to. I figured that TAHS would be the place I would find people who would accept me. Instead of finding people striving to be serve art without losing their originality, I find spoiled brats who blame everything on everyone else. I know who they’re talking about. And I don’t know why it upsets me so much. It makes me sad to know. This letter is not to you, alone. It is to everyone. And I don’t know why it upsets me so much.
Letter to my Heart
Why am I so gullible and stupid? Huh? Why are you? Did you really think he would see something in you? Something GOOD? My God, girl, have you not learned anything? You are not worthy of affection.love.friendship.tolerance. I thought you would’ve figured that out by now.
Letter to Chris Miller
It’s not that I don’t believe in love; it’s just that I don’t believe that I am worthy of it. The most romantic thing I could ask for is… anything you’re willing to give. I’m innocent, dramatic, tender, cautious, simple, unsure, young but too old for my age, untrusting and afraid. I am vulnerable and a little bitter, lonely; I feel betrayed in my search. I’m cynical and passionate; lost and broken. I am willing to give up everything I have for someone else. I am heartbroken that no one takes me up on the offer. We are never who others think we are. No one really knows anything about anyone.
Letter to my Soul
I used to know a God, when the world was new and beautiful and I was Good. I used to know a God. Now I know of a god. All it took was one evening in the darkness in gut-wrenching pain. A moment of self-reflection. I had deceived myself into believing I was good enough for the Ruler of the Universe! I don’t understand this quest. We try to walk a thin line we know we will fall off of. We struggle for an unattainable goal, an impossible destination. It’s a joke! All of my joy was crushed when I saw myself for what I am. Maybe God can forgive me but I can’t forgive myself. I wish I could be that innocent, happy little girl again. But I can’t possibly be that person anymore. I can’t get back to where I started and I can’t change. I just can’t change. This god I know of- I don’t think He really cares. How important could I possibly be to the Alpha and Omega?
Rain
Two tiny Sparkling orbs Cling desperately together; Precarious on the swollen limb. Inevitably they fall To a shallow grave In the thirsty dirt below. As each falls Each is replaced In timeless rhythm Never breaking. Merciless The Mother Sky continues reigning- Indifferent to the fate of her children.
Letter to a Dying Friend
“I don’t know if I’m ready for this,” I think, as the envelope is plucked from the stack beside me. I’ve read it a hundred times already and can’t recall a single occasion where I didn’t cry. I can’t help but think of you. I never read the Bible verses you included with each letter until tonight. My hands tremble as they set the heavy paper on my stomach. I don’t know how, but you go into my head and heart. You haven’t written in two months and then call to say you’ll be in St. Augustine on Monday.
I read the words on the outside of the envelope- words I remember perfectly, even when I can’t quote the content of the letter. “This is going to make you laugh.” I slide out the four pieces of notebook paper, messy with the confessions of a fifteen year old boy. My God, we’re only just children. He turns sixteen in January. Will he be forever sixteen? Will he leave me? Maybe it is time to move on. In love and fear. “And Death shall have no Dominion.”
January 1, 1998
I always cry on New Year’s Eve. I hate that. My resolutions are: learn to love, learn to be loved, learn to be vulnerable, learn to trust, let myself be taught. That’s it. What are yours? Why do I care? Why is it that hearing your voice puts me in a better mood? Even my mother has commented on it; gravely and full of testosterone. Why do we talk for three hours one night and only three minutes the next? You confuse and intrigue me. I would hate you for your games but I want you so badly. I don’t even know you. I would use you. I want you. I want to run, but I feel a gravity that demands I be near you if I can- no matter what.
Letter to Chris Miller
One of my resolutions was to be vulnerable. “Why vulnerable?” you asked. Well, isn’t that what life’s all about? About feeling pain with the same ecstasy with which you feel joy? To be vulnerable and trusting, even in situations where you are certain you’ll be hurt- and letting yourself be hurt, without bitterness or resentment. I find myself thinking that this powerful feeling is merely a result of hormones and your amazing corn-silk hair; that I am too young to understand love; too rash and fickle. It is ridiculous at such a young age. But isn’t that what love is? Isn’t it young and fresh and naïve? Love is life. It is the single thing worth living for. I’m too immature to talk about this. I finally see that this day and one ten years later are not the same. I realize how unimportant, yet precious the present is, so maybe I will learn how to be patient.
Letter to Chris Miller
It does not surprise me that I can’t get you out of my head. Sometimes truths are spoken like lies; craftily, with a certain amount of jest that is always indicative of something more. I know that for some reason, you don’t want to talk to me. I know that you stay in my mind much longer than I’d like you to. But, at last, I must come to terms with reality. I must admit, I had myself going for a while. You cured me of that efficiently. But I just have to know: what did I do to deserve this?
The answer is standing in front of me and it hurts. The answer hurts a whole lot more than the question. I’ve ignored God. I want to change but I am terrified to do so. I just don’t know if I’ll be able to give up all of my sins. Some of my urges disappear when I turn away from You. Others grow stronger.
If the point is to get me to stop burning myself then I have to leave the church. The pressure is relieved, and even though I try not to act on that sin anymore, I feel no holier. My mind becomes obsessed with it- with graphic images flashing through my head of the physical wounds I should inflict upon myself to match the agony I feel at that moment. I have to perform them or they only grow more and more intense in act and concentration, and you cannot ignore them. You cannot sleep- you have no respite from it, tearing through your veins and begging to be let out. And it must be punished! The flesh must be punished for its filth. It must be burnt back.
Beautiful II
I cannot say exactly when I realized it. I could say it was in fifth grade when my mother told me I was fat. Or, in sixth grade when I compared my immature body to those of the women around me, or even just last year in eighth grade when I started the effective combination of anorexia and exercise. I still run five miles before school every morning. It could have been when the first man to ever say I was beautiful screwed me over. Or it could have been when I figured out that men were never looking at me; I was the ugly friend you have to be nice to no matter what.
Have you ever looked at yourself in a mirror? I mean- really looked? I swear, it is the most awful thing I’ve ever done. To look into your own eyes; I couldn’t do it. I think that is when it happened. Yes, it must be. The second I really looked at myself hard in the mirror, I wanted to throw it against the wall. I tried to will it to shatter into a million pieces so I wouldn’t have to look at myself anymore. I was furious.
To this day I can’t look people in the eyes. I’ve always looked at their mouths when they speak; they can’t tell the difference. I think mouths are more expressive anyway. People’s eyes are private. Letting someone look into your eyes is revealing who you really are. It’s giving them everything you’ve ever tried to hide. It’s like having sex- there’s a commitment there, and seriousness. Being ugly means something different to everyone. Beauty is only skin deep and all that crap. I am not beautiful. My face is not especially pleasant to look at, and while my breasts are rather large and I’m quite thin, neither is my body. And my soul? I love it and hate it. I wish to have quiet wisdom and peacefulness, and I would gain from that vulnerability and innocence. I have a twisted sense of trust.
Commentary on the Previous Letters
It’s times like these when I just want to sit back and say,
SHUT UP YOU WHINY LITTLE BITCH!
good idea.
Letter to the Human Race
I like the way the rain reflects on the road. The slick asphalt reminds me of the way things should be. That while we race to our jobs, meetings, soccer games, nature does not compete. The uncanny reflection of trees, dark and wet, reminds us silently that they still survive. The tree does not strive to grow up too soon, and does not take pride in the scars of age it gains as time goes on. Their branches tangle without a worry. The peaceful drip of inconsistent raindrops upon the portrait bends the tall masts precariously. How graceful they are. Though bound by power lines and forced to survive where we cannot, they live. Oh to be as the tree and to let our portraits shimmer in pools black on the asphalt until a speeding car races by and, without knowing or caring, sprays our dreams all along the shoulder.
Untitled
Music is the sole thing that can fill this aching void in my soul.
Letter to God
I knelt on the cold, hard linoleum and slipped quickly into a sitting position. I folded my hands, my shaking fingers intertwined, and waited for the tears to come. “How did I get to here- How the hell?” The music flowed far above any consciousness or Superego. I need God. I felt His Presence. I have to quit making excuses.
There is a sadness that comes with certain things. That’s why I love metal music so much. The chords are full of discord, anger, and unquenchable pain. Pain destroys everything in its path. I let pain destroy my relationship with You. Pain killed my will to live. Pain did away with all hope, love, and passion and I hate it. But there’s something sickeningly cleansing about it.
I once heard someone say, “Tears are God’s way of healing people.” Tears and pain are different. Tears break your heart; pain hardens it. Tears remind you of your kinship with those around you; pain strips away your humanity. Tears restore your soul; pain tears you apart. I have lived beyond the pain. I have survived the onslaught of death wishes for myself. Sometimes I tell myself it’s not important. Other times I hate myself for my selfishness and self-pity. Sometimes I study the reflection of a candle flame on a blade for hours at a time. The only thing worse than something is nothing. The only thing worse than pain is emptiness.
They never came.
Letter to Chris Miller
I had this odd premonition that it would happen, and I suspected it before the words even came out of your mouth. I feel and see things that are inexplicable. My intuition stays true too often and I fear those things I feel and do not see. They confuse me, and I don’t understand why I seem to be chosen. I do not fear you. Rather, I fear the pieces of me that I see reflected in you.
I have been perfectly honest in every answer to every question, though you refuse to answer mine. I can barely contain myself around you. When I’m away from you all of my senses are tuned to catch a glimpse of you; the scent of you; a taste of the molecules of your breath on the air. I am not interested in these little games, as before. You know them all too well and it aggravates me that you are trying to play with my head. Why did you even bother in the first place? I don’t understand why you lie to me.