Another piece of “epistolary” writing to a friend—
for the sake of trying to be more active on here.
I wish they were calling to break bread. Instead, every
call nowadays is apropos to the “bread” I owe, and
giving closure to margins that I couldn’t spare unless I
was ripping off parts of me to pay back the debt. Imagine
$3,000 in the form of what I could spare in flesh, $8,000
from marrow, $17,812 directly from what I’d scrape from
arteries and capillaries.
I’d barely have enough left to feel sorry for myself.
(Leave the liver, no one’s getting anything from that.)
I have this idea I’ve been mulling that we’re bad hunters
until our appetite changes. I have another idea that I truly
can fake it ’til I make it. In whatever regard I choose.
If I choose.
I guess I’m just chock-full of ideas, these being two of many
that pass through me like a tributary finding a new, foreign
soil—relentless, and engrained with something that resembles
a past lifetime worth spending.
I’ll find something somewhere, surely.
Until then, I guess I’ll just ache and vibrate, even when
stationary is only meant to feel like a form of
transportation to the next mode of movement.
I guess in many ways I’m craving a breakfast in Las Vegas—
mimosas at 8:00 with a tower of pancakes, as the skyline
towers over, reflected off of silver plates and blinding me
in one eye.
Take an escape if you can find it.
I’d swim in Vegas’ sewers if it meant new experience. I’d get
to know the rats on a first name basis. I’d learn their language
and understand their behavior. I’d teach them that they
actually may have it better.
What could they teach me?
P.S.—I think this is going to be a perpetual cycle of speaking
at you. I like it in a weird way.
P.P.S.—There’s a lot I need to unpack and I appreciate you
being here for it. We replace the contents every time we don’t.
I also can’t get over the fact that you are in fact an I.