EH Letter #1 draft
I must have re-read my last correspondence to you one hundred times, As both writer and reader I have recognized the inherent failings of the missive. How can one atone when one is incapable of recognizing one’s own trespasses? I mentioned having a roll in leaving, to being responsible for abandoning the “things” for which I care most in this world. Barring the absence of Gut, this statement is true.
But what are the “things” of which I speak? I suppose you could say the world at large. While this statement is not inaccurate, but it too is evasive. I seek to apologize to one small inhabitant of the wide world, a person who long ago bore the marker of “essential” though this marker was not enough to stop what came next.
If you could not tell, that inhabitant is you.
LB letter #1
It’s funny, I never would have thought I’d begin writing letters to a man that is presumably long since dead when “I can’t be troubled to send a postcard to [my] own mother.” Honestly, I don’t fully understand what I’m doing writing this, where to begin….where to end. You will never get this (obviously)--so what is this letter’s function? Am I simply tricking myself into finally starting a journal? I don’t think that’s it because it was your letter that drove me to put pen to paper, not any one event (or three) in my life. This doesn’t feel like a veiled attempt to vent or process or whatever the hell. It was your words; it was as if they demanded an answer (or company at the very least). I’d imagine they’ve yet to received one as I found your letter in the wall of my rental. So--it appears your home is now mine, for the time being.
While my current living situation is decidedly temporary (as previously stated)-a pit stop. I get the feeling this place was a far more permanent fixture in your life. Your letter...well, your letter made you seem trapped. Locked inside these four walls. It’s not clear what was keeping you captive. There was just one letter, so not much to go on.
Where you were rooted in place, I float precariously. I feel untethered or loosely tied at the very least. School is why I’m here and I suppose that’s some sort of bond, a very superficial one that in all reality is easily slipped. Let’s just say I’m not entirely passionate about my studies. Don’t get me wrong, I’m great student. Homework is in on time, tests receive the proper preparations & all that jazz.
But am I hungry for this? Stomach grumbling for the next morsel of information? Ah, no. Decidedly not. But I go through the motions because it’s better than the alternative, presumably. Bumbling around waiting for lightning to strike, waiting for epiphany--not a sound plan. So here I stay, a guest in your former prison. No visitors, I guess we have that in common, at least.
I don’t know anyone here. Not yet. So I’m writing you. For connection? To stay sane? To abandon sanity? Glad to see I’ve at least maintained my capacity for dramatics.
Well something tells me this won’t be my last letter. Till next time.