IMAGINARY LETTER No. 7 (“Perish”, the thought)
When did I begin staring backwards all the time? When did anguish and cynicism tip the balance over hope and potential? 17 years old? 47? 57?
When did my young uncle Buddy die and make my mother cry? That day I crossed the flood-damaged bridge to elementary school. They wouldn’t let cars on it but I walked on it anyway, staring down through the breeches in the structure down into the chasm. I know that void; I know why they call it a broken heart.
How can I turn my gaze around again?
When did my mom’s cat Kismet (Fate) die? I remember someone thought maybe she was kicked.
When, when did all the rest of them die? I don’t want to forget any of them. One day I will be forgotten.
Is oblivion the peace to come? They suffered, they died, but then this world forgot them. Is it crazy for the dead to mourn the dead?
I remember as a child sitting alone late at night in the big cushioned chair watching the bright Christmas tree. I remember the cozy happiness.
I need a daddy God, a mommy God to comfort me.
If the universe is pointless then it is more precious that they all exist in my love, my sorrow.
Can this be self pity?
Should I be grateful?
I will never know.
How do I squeeze the most out of every moment? At this moment it is the silent hour between dark and light.
Is it enough to live? Remembering, remembering, and writing are the same attempt to hold the river passing. I am the river. We hold each other tightly.
Do I choose sorrow? Is it wrong to forget? Who says that it is wrong? God or no God, what can I control? My mouth, my hands, my feet.
“Chose why you are sorry, Define your loss as you pass. It only matters to you. The Sun must die to keep you warm. Stars died to create your substance.”
Why? Why does “Why?” matter?
“You should be living, living forward. Dying is living forward.”
Turn, turn, turn, I go. Should I turn to stone?
What does the world want from me? Death, I know. Sorrow is an attempt at resurrection.
Where does it all end?
Alan Grody, yours
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