Thursday May 03rd 2007, 11:55 pm
Filed under: All Letters,Hate Letters

To formal friends,

Oh how my suspicions run high when you tell me things like “I went to the doctors yesterday” or “I’m hanging out with my new friend tonight.” I can’t help but to picture you getting on with your life, replacing your memories of us with with new and possibly better memories. Why did you go to the doctor’s office? Was it a check up? Did you think you were pregnant? You hate the doctors, so why, on this specific occasion, did you feel the need to go? Fuck, I need to let go of this. It’s time to stop these ridiculous tormenting thoughts. Foreboding uncertainties plague me with endless answers. All imagined responses only lead me deeper into the depths of depression. Every time you call and let me know that you are doing well, I sink further into a depressive state of solitude. Los Angeles is beginning to dissipate as a wonderful relief from the hard times I experienced in San Francisco because of your current updates of the fantastic life you are now leading. Fuck you for regenerating so quickly. Even though I have contempt for your happiness, I still feel love for you. Why is this? Why can’t I get away from these lingering nostalgic and warm feelings for you? Am I dwelling on a past that only exists in my head? My logic proceeds to explain to me that you are not my memory of you, as we are not the memories we remember reality to be. History is as fluid and transformative as the imagination can allow. Therefore, you, I, you and I, are only constructs in my head, which consume me as a work of fiction consumes its reader. Our story, told by our memories, is a context and validates itself within the individual. But most fictional stories only relay morals and examples; they are metaphors for instances which can never be fully documented without constraints, rules and frames. In our case, my memories are filtered by my perception, in fact, double filtered from the point of remembering, to the point of recollection of those memories. This sense of post-modern logic brings me further from any sense of truth (the ultimate the ultimate goal of history) and sends me down into the depths of falsity. The only truth to the memories is that they exist as fluid devices of the self, thus creating the formula that ultimately answers with a lie… I’ve lost my train of thought, dear wife, which goes to show that thought and memory are only temporal devices to propagate the human mind further into the universal beast’s mouth– the mouth and belly of history. To deny history its feed or to take away the main curse in which history devours, is to starve and kill reality altogether. Death can’t even escape the jaws of history. The re-appropriation of molecules continue to feed the beast and the beast feeds the moment. And that’s the cyclical nature of time. The moment eats history; history poops out the moment. And the future, well, the future is a cookbook of recipes in which reality has to make, bake, fry, or boil that which is to come.


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