This is the most personal thing I've ever written. Please tell me if I should keep at it or not.


People tend to seek others out in times of crisis, don't you agree?

You should. You sought me out.
I certainly sought you out.

Long before we met I had already planned it out. You were a nomad, shapeshifter, pied piper, rock star, melancholy artist. You played pretend just like I did. You felt no guilt for it.

You were my best friend, my mentor, my muse, my lover, my very own mourning pallbearer. Who cares if it was all in my imagination? You were mine.

If I felt bad I would chant to myself "even though I've hit rock bottom I can obtain a few pebbles of wisdom from this." The pebble was always you, you who saved me every single time when I got too close to being human.

(Humans are the devil; evolution is the worst plague to ever threaten life. Mankind will eventually wipe itself out, with new technology and new science, new weapons of mass destruction and ways to commit genocide...and get away with it. Everyone else excuses it. It's the way God wants it. It's the natural course of life. It's the eventual cause of our demise, that's what it is.)

When I was little you were the kid down the block who taught me how to catch the neighborhood cats and keep them docile in my lap, you taught me how to BE a cat. We prowled around the streets in the twilight just before the streetlamps flickered on and the air filled with the sotto voce hum of fruit flies. I loved you for it.

Last year you were a guitar-wielding bohemian who got around the city on a miniature skateboard, utterly without inhibition. You taught me to improvise, you taught me the way to bullshit my way through life. We wandered the streets whispering silently to each other, trying to survive in a cauldron of chaos. I loved you for it.

Five years from now you will have matured; you will not care when I am tired and cranky; you will listen to the bleak Chopin etudes I am so fond of, and you will not sigh anxiously when I start screaming and damning society to the dregs of hell. I think you will be tall and lithe, favoring aviator sunglasses. I will love you for it.

The difference between these tulle dreams and reality is the presence of skin. The reality of now is that you are here. You are here, right in front of me, and I am talking to you, but you do not respond. You have the faraway glance of a ghost and the impatience of a storybook monster. I would not be surprised if you breathed fire in your sleep. I do not know if I love you or not.

In December I wrote to you - six pages of personal, historical exposition that rivaled your physical existence for prominence in my mind. I split you into two: one I crumpled into a starved, anemic ball and tried to set on fire in hopes of waking the demon inside you, the human part I knew would drive you to insanity; the other I tried to drown myself in, looking for the salvation I thought you had to offer. You didn't even notice what I was doing.

Your body is a crime. A feat of architecture, asymmetric yet inviting; I wonder how many lemmings have jumped off your forehead?

(Physical existence should be outlawed. There is no need for tangible enjoyment in my world, no sex, no procreation, no sensory diffusion. We should all be minds, we should all be ideas - Plato said it best. There is nothing real about us; we are all ethereal and transient, transparent even. Then there would be no need to possess. No coveting thy neighbor's goods. No stealing of vases, paintings, hearts. No internet piracy.)

When I was thirteen I fell in love with a bipolar professor who wrote things of tortured beauty and said things of jumbled genius.

When I was fifteen I fell in love with a vagrant pretty-boy who raised his eyes to the sky and cursed the clouds for blocking his view of the sun; he wanted to blind himself.

When I was seven I fell in love with a nineteenth century samurai warrior, a kickball champion, and a newspaper delivery boy. They all died within months of each other.

This year - NOW - I have renounced love, just for a little while, the reason being the loss of my pebble. It lodges somewhere in your stomach (I hope it gives you hemorrhoids); you gouged out your own soul with it.

Next year, if I am not in the mood to indulge your petulance, will you still be here? Will your dirty iceberg eyes melt to chocolate, burnt wood hair curl to flakes of ash, cupid's bow mouth stretch to take in all of the nighttime wonders in one single grin?

No matter. I will still love you.

I have nothing else to say. [bows out]