Wednesday August 01st 2007, 12:01 am
Filed under: All Letters,Love Letters

To a complicated system of loss and love,

As the months go by, my memory of you finds itself lost. Where did you go? What depths of my head have you made your home? Is it cozy where you lay? Are you happy there? I ask aloud even though I already know the answers to these questions. Your specter exists inside me, bound to me as my thoughts are bound to my mind. The more time passes and the longer we are apart, the further I find myself lost in reality. Depression has sunk its fangs deep into my flesh and I feel paralyzed by its bite. My days consist of fear and anger because I don’t know how to deal with our separation. The failures in my life mock me from the time I open my eyes in the morning until the time I pass out in a drunken stupor at night. My body has become malleable and plump which I blame on the beer. There are vague resemblances of happy moments when I find myself wrapped up in conversation with another artist, but beyond these teasers of warmth, I am alone, desperate and lost. This is my complaint: I’ve lost my confidence in myself; the same confidence that gave me the courage to come visit you for the first time in San Jose. My sexual desires are suppressed by low self-esteem. My need to paint is subdued by self-loathing. You are the only one I tell these emotions to, and therefore I keep a barrier facade in place as a confident, warm, outgoing person to the rest of the populace. I wonder if anyone who interacts with me realizes the depths of my despair? Today’s date took me by surprise, as we have almost reached our one-year anniversary from the day that I met you. Can you believe it? A year has passed us by. So much has happened in this past year, I can not begin to recap its magnitude of intensity. The memories flow like a rapid river, swirling thoughts into one another, creating viscous half-truthful stories in my mind. I was thinking of making you a painting for our anniversary, however, considering my mental retardation from the depression, I’d be an achievement if I could sketch a thought on paper for you, let alone paint a painting. Some people claim the self to be its own worse critic, and maybe they’re right in their claim, but for me, the memory of you criticizes me constantly. My inner voice has morphed into the sound of your yells, thus making you my worst critic. I know you have no concern for this process, in terms of how you are separating your life from mine, however, I am greatly concerned by this transformation of the self. The self, and its propagation through time, has been philosophies greatest questionnaire and survey. “Know thyself” spoke the Greek philosophers. Battling ignorance of the self has been a constant plight for great thinkers. I wish I could be ignorant of my thoughts on my self. I’m sure it could be blissful to disregard the self as the primary concern of human existence.

I’ve lost track of my thoughts tonight. It must be getting late.


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