2:46 a.m. - 2002-02-04
Rusty
an open letter to the future
dearest,
stephen king once wrote that writing is a form of telepathy. a connection of sorts; my words spoken into a rusty tin can, your ear pressed to the other can, waiting. it's even better than that, though... because i can speak them, and they can lie dormant, for years even, before you pick up the receiver. perhaps the sentiments of the original stories and feelings won't resound with me anymore, but the point being: once they did. once these words were important. and you can eavesdrop on those moments any time you wish.
as long as you keep hold of this letter, that is.
i wanted to tell you that i am feeling a bit better. the hazy, apathetic clouds of the past five vicoden-ridled days have rolled on by; i can see the stars once again. even before the drugs, though... i wasn't quite me. it seems i was under the impression that an intergral part of myself was no longer contained in the safehouse. it isn't around anymore, certainly not in the physical sense (if you could ever call it that)... and the mental tether is fast fraying. i had to let it (you) go, or my memories (fantasies), i guess. between you and me, what will be and what was, burrows the ever irritating presence of 'the present'.
not to say that we won't look back and laugh someday, if i am around for it. but it's not here and now, and i am not sorry, not really. i used to be. i hate your sense of timing, you know that? you always lag at just the wrong occasions. but again, let's look back and laugh. someday.
since i have given up the death grip, i have a favor to ask. i need you to inspire me. you are so beautiful, and promising; glimmering and mysterious. is there enough time to cherish all the half remembered presents you always seem to furnish? will i even see them all?
i want to. i want to see everything.
--s.
