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Dear Emily
Dear Emily,
How did I ever fill all those pages.
I'm alone now. There are days that go by where I say more words to myself than to others. There are days where I do not say any words to others.
Do I want you back out of desperation? I can barely remember who you are and I surely do not understand the desire of wanting you back - back to what?
This world, it sure makes you feel small. And stranded. I feel small and stranded here. Staggering from coffee shop to coffee shop, from meaningless online website to another. Revving my bike up to the limit, with no purpose.
You will never read this. It might as well as be that I never write it. Alas, I will remember.
Another moment the return to which I will one day yearn.
I feel numb now, perpetually. Where once there were flashes of warmth and excitement, now sits a tame gorilla.
Soon, I will make enough playing poker to travel the globe. Maybe on one of its corners I will find another like you. Will she be as unhappy, as lonesome, as stranded, as you are? And will she, too, grow complacent with time, desperate, and powerless to resist the everyday urges of the mind, fall into the arms of another man.
A psychedelic know-it-all.
Have I become like them. Will I, too, one day fall, perpetually?
Days like sharp moments of unreflected truth.
Creating inner visions of poetic indifference, a caricature of my inner me, a frozen thing, stuck, stuck like me only more stoic, caught here, by its feathers, tries to get away, yet I grip it tight, and each day, it piles on.
Dear Emily, do I stalk my own dreams?
Perfection Or a projection
Perfection
Or a projection of my
mother
> Soon, I will make enough playing poker to travel the globe. Maybe on one of its corners I will find another like you. Will she be as unhappy, as lonesome, as stranded, as you are? And will she, too, grow complacent with time, desperate, and powerless to resist the everyday urges of the mind, fall into the arms of another man.
Shit
> Soon, I will spend enough after traveling the globe. Maybe I will never find another like you. Will she be as empty and will I feel that lack? And will she, too, turn into you. A frozen wasteland of a stranger. Fuck that.
You and I, dear reader, we are fucking through.