LB letter #3 (interruption)


Dear E.H.,




I apologize for this message. I fear somewhere between this morning coffee and this afternoon’s snack I’ve come completely undone. It’s just...fuck. How do I even put words to the feelings that consume me? I feel like I’m suffocating or maybe there’s something in my chest. It squeezes everything, leaking despair. If I could just remove this thing this emotional cancer, I’d maybe be ok. But it’s impossible. The wedge is deep, lodged between my ribs, deep down. To remove it would be to risk death. So I cry, as if attempting to lance a boil. But the drainage never ceases. That analogy - fucing disgusting. I’m sorry for the language, E. Something about your letter indicates you are a perfect gentleman but I cannot be restrained at present. All the absences, the people who are gone from life (once felt prominently), feel like tiny deaths though many still live and breathe.


They just live and breathe elsewhere. I feel the need to scream though deep down I know that if attempted, my voice would be absent. Lost when needed most. I miss them all with such a fire and fervor it’s...well it’s debilitating.


What the hell am I doing in Montreal any way?? I mean, seriously. How do you tell every single person you’ve ever befriended just how much you miss them? It’s impossible and likely unwanted. No one wants to be attached to desperation from what I can tell.


Oh, E. I’m so sorry. I’m tempted to just ball this up and throw it out but something tells me you may know the state I’ve described all too well. I wish there were some way to actually reach you, to let you know you are not alone but you were. Knowing other people share your feelings can only go so far.


I’ll try to straighten up, turn that frown upside down, etc for my next missive.