Dear Dr. Capen,
A long time has passed...
I believe I can talk about it now.
I'm not afraid, or sad.
Not now, at least.
I'm just so uncertain, and so insecure, as if all things in my life had a different texture, as if my heart were wrapped up by thick black velvet. I have very little to tell about my days. Really. I can barely stand them, to be honest.
Actually, I wish I were dead.
I know this will not come as a surprise. I know you will think, again, that I'm depressed, that I need drugs, that I am about to collapse, and that you, being what you are, can help me out, can give me that extra drop of hope I am missing to make it through the day.
It matters not.
I wish I could live in the graveyards, I wish I could thrive where others gave up.
I saw a movie yesterday that moved me like nothing has moved me in a very, very long time. It was about dying, about paradise, about horror, about love. And love, the word so used, so worn out, has now left many stains in my personality. Maybe there is no such a thing as love; maybe there is no such a thing as hatred either.
Still, I'm empty.
Still, I want to die.
When I lay stiff, cold inside my casket, and some mourning eyes will be spitting one or two tears, I will fly free, fly away from the world I never understood. Maybe I would meet God, if there is such a thing as God.
How can there be a God?
It hardly makes any sense.
My words will outlive my body, but what am I going to be? Why am I feeling so vulnerable, so fragile, so lost? Is it the way people feel when they're going to die? Is that the way people act when they know there isn't much time left, and they have conditioned themselves to enter heaven, or hell?
I can't tell any more.
Or any longer.
I wish I were dead already. That would free me up from the fear.
Yes, The Fear. I would be oblivious to Him. I would play like a baby; take shapes and forms as I please for I would not longer be afraid. But I am so afraid now as I write these words. I've just become afraid. And all of a sudden, when my eyes turn blank, I'll see the shades of those I wish I would meet.
But why would I meet them? Why would they want to meet me?
I watch, face down, my last sighs. I have nothing left. It has all been sucked by this … this thing. I cannot explain what it is, I cannot explain why or when it started. It just exists. It makes me afraid. But this thing is the only comfort I have at night, for its onimipresence speaks loud, reassures me about the other side.
I wish I would live.
I still am.