Four Years Ago
Time and distance can both be strange things. Strange how, despite those three days, we have now not seen or contacted each other for almost four years. Itís also strange how the love for another can be something else. You never did tell me what it was.
Shortly, Iíll publicise my epitaph for you. I donít think you would even know it was for you. I think itís interesting how people can see people so differently from how they see themselves. I will tell you with subtlety in a way you find intrusive. I know exactly as to how youíll respond:
A few words. Youíll make the effort to compliment some small detail that is irrelevant to that dreadful thing I call Ďusí. That will be it. I have learnt not to push for anything that might mean something. That is not to say it isnít difficult admitting that there might not be anything with meaning at all.
Iíll save you from the details on dreams and the few images that seem to be scorched into memory. Nothing has ever really felt the same since. Like a short meeting with what it feels like to be whole, and then itís gone again. It was better when the feeling was an unknown, entirely alien. The ease at which I faced the struggle, the one you told me you admired, has been getting more difficult since.
Anyhow, I know how these kind of things make your head hurt. The few serious talks we had seemed to come down on you like a mental illness. My intentions have always been kind to you. Sometimes frustrated, but always kind. I will let you rest. Alone, or however you wish.
All my love and best wishes.