72
Sunday July 22nd 2007, 4:03 pm
Filed under: All Letters,Love Letters

To my only escape,

When the rooster next-door crows I know the sun is rising. The old cliché is physically in my world. My stomach gurgles and I realize I’ve been up all night, yet haven’t had any dinner. A man wanders home from the bar across the street, yet finds himself face down in a pool of his own blood, in front of my doorstep. Another man wanders outside the same bar as the first man, fighting with oncoming traffic. And all I want to do is draw. My forehead burns and my eyes are bloodshot red. An eerie light shines at the end of the hallway, but its only noticeable when I close my eyes and feel the heat pressing on my eyelids. The sun is rising, and I am half awake. It’s nights like tonight that make me miss you. There are perfect people and places for all different moments in our lives, and right now, you, in my bed with me, away from the drunk, blood-red, boxing men, away from the ominous lights in the hallway and away from the governing sun, is the perfect person in the perfect place. You were an amazing cuddler, someone I never wanted to let go. My arms could wrap around your body and feel like two consecutive puzzle pieces made from clay. It was a pleasure and a privilege to lie next to your warm soft womanly body; at least, it was my pleasure when we first fell in Love. I ask you, dear Mindy, what is the purpose in our lives? Is it truly some subjective contextual thing? Is it love? Companionship? Finding that perfect cuddle? How can so many people be so unhappy, searching for this unfathomable meaning? The meaning is not a needle in a haystack; no, it doesn’t exist. There is no purpose to all this bullshit we put ourselves through – or put up with. One can be in Love, happily married and stable, one minute; then one can fall out of love, go insane, or worse, destroy one’s entire existence the next minute. What then is the purpose of it all? Tonight a man wrapped his hands around my neck and he began to squeeze. My hands grabbed his hands away from suffocating me and I told him never to do that again. He was drunk and being a moron, but he backed off anyway. Why do we have to go through such conflicts to bring us no further towards cognitive epiphany? Is stupidity a mental disorder? Should I feel sorry for those who don’t have the cognitive capacity to know better than to squeeze another human’s neck out of sheer retardation? The world is a scary, intimidating, meaningless existence; however, its meaning lies in the hypocrisy and paradox of the word meaningless. To be meaningless, is to have meaning, a purpose. Jokes are meaningless, yet they still exist to propagate their own lack of need. Like humans, the universe plays practical jokes. History is using a meaningless system to piggyback on the beast we call meaning. Yet, the sun has risen, which means I must go to sleep. However, know that I am thinking of you, or of the memory of you, as I lay my pensive head on this pillow of semantic clouds. Even though we may never hold each other again, which is why a man can only take his memories with him to the grave, I hope for a day when there is some physical being in which I can hold, to get me through these crazy nights of disgust and hardship.

-sleep.


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