Saturday December 08th 2007, 8:14 pm
Filed under: All Letters,Love Letters

To Mindy,

It’s Sunday, heaven’s day, but by the feel of the heat engulfing my house, it could easily be hell’s day. I awoke searching for you, soon to realize that my dream had convinced me of a lie. I wanted to hug you this morning, but these wants and desires are starting to subside. Each day I’m without you, I grow more disdainful for our break up. I can’t remember the last time we spoke to one another; I guess that’s a good thing. However, there is a recording saved on my phone of you, in your most docile tone, asking for me to call you. I know it sounds strange for me to save this recording, but it helps me not hate you when I listen to it. You see, I’ve begun to imagine who you are; you have become someone strange to me, a stranger that constantly plays tricks on my psyche. And for that, I’ve grown distaste for you. Even the sight of you– pictures that I have– makes my stomach churn. But the message I’ve saved to the phone helps reconnect a healthy understanding of who you are, rather than allowing my imagination turn you into a serpent of evil intentions. There have been nights preceding this letter, that I’ve almost given up on existing. I ride the borderline between suicide and wanting to continue living. How can such polarization occur? It seems like such a thin division between killing oneself and propagating one’s survival. How would you tell the news of my death? I doubt you’d be too upset. I’m sure there’s someone in your life that will comfort your tears (wishful thinking, I know), and then you’d move on, as you should. You’d be a widower at that point, while I’d just be another sorry statistic. There are certain actions I take to help maneuver myself away from these incredibly macabre thoughts like: clean the house, find a friend to talk to (without telling him or her how fucked up I am), go for a walk or bike ride. I have to activate my body to assist my mind from venturing too far down the dark narrow road of suicide. Why am I suicidal, I wonder? Is this a chemical imbalance? Am I really that depressed? Or maybe I just don’t want to live because death seems so much more attractive than living persons like you, whom I constantly find in life, and remind me of my daily failures. You mock me when I think of you smiling in San Francisco. As my eyes close and I ponder your happiness, a dark clouded numbness fills my body– from my toe to the tip of my neck– and I begin to sway from the unbalanced feeling of no feeling. Is this a self-defense mechanism? Is my body in shock? The tingles, which rush through my extremities, are exhilarating. I feel drunk on darkness. When will it end, dear wife? I can only ask you these questions, as I’ve not built friendships to real people in the same manner that I built this dialogue with you. Therefore, I am lonely; I am alone.


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