letters pt. 2
Letter to the composer of all those love songs
I’m supposed to write to people that I don’t like, so I’ve decided to write to you. Don’t be offended, I’m only trying to express my feelings.
I think you do it on purpose, I really do. I think you even know it, but you still do it because you can.
People think they’re expressing their feelings through your words, did you know that? Of course you did. You write every word with the intention of them sending your lines to each other to express their feelings. You make them a little different, a little rhythmic, a little painful just so they can feel like they relate.
But did you know that you emphasise their feelings, to the point of exaggeration? Did you know that they’re led by your words into an endless pit of emotions that they think they understand?
I know this because I was one of them. I’d close my eyes and let you into my head, believing you as if you were a story in the bible. I’d shiver as you tell me something that hits too close to my heart, and play the words over and over again. Once I’d even tried etching them into my arm but I was only halfway through when it hurt too much so I gave up even when you told me to never give up.
And then I realised the stupidity in the idea that one can express someone else’s feelings. How do you know how I feel when you’re halfway across the world and trying to figure out how to create a new hit?
No one knows how I really feel.
But now you know a little bit.
Your target market
Letter to all the devoted capitalists
I joined your club when I was about four years old because everyone said you brought better opportunities. I accepted your teachings and moulded myself into your culture because you valued identical individuality. I saw the power, the wealth and the luxuries that you could afford, and was told that a little work and a lot of faith would take me there.
But I’ve realised this. You’re not omnipotent. You’re not indiscriminate. You’re not even humane. In fact, a lot of the time your success is fuelled by sheer luck.
There is no equality, and there is no understanding. There are just a bunch of politicians who tell us what could have been but will never be. Because you keep changing your mind. Because all you want is what’s good for yourself, and progress is for the sake of progress and belittling everyone else is how you make yourself feel okay about wanting the world but never being satisfied.
You’re not beautiful at all. Your face pretends to be pure and open but inside you’re always calculating. You just looked shinier and brighter from the other side of the fence.
And I am every bit as selfish as you.
I just wish I didn’t belong here.
The wielder of illogical thought
Letter to the beautiful promise of a cold morning sun
You’re cruel, you know. You allow us to believe. You allow us to peer out of our windows every morning and smile when we see you. You allow us to become excited at the idea that today could be the day to wear that new dress.
You always let us down.
Sometimes, just to be close to you, I’ll leave the safety of my shelter to feel your touch. Yet as your glow spreads across my skin I shiver.
When I close my eyes I imagine that your embrace is warm. And I’ll stand in the street with the hustle and bustle around me, the cars zooming past and the trees brushing against each other in the wind. I can almost feel it for a second.
But your warmth is intangible, and irrespective of how much I long for it, it will fade with my dwindling strength that I put into my imagination. Because I allow myself to hope, to believe, that you might still be there when I’m not enforcing it with my mind.
And it’s so hard to love someone that disappoints you every time. But I continue to hope, no matter how many times you’ve hurt me.
Letter to the room 241
You’re always watching. Pale, white and cold and watching. Your cracks are starting to show because you’ve been staring so hard. I wonder… when you stare so hard can you even see? And if you do see, do you really take it all in?
Your whites are so bright that not even the shadows show. Is that because you don’t need sleep? Or maybe it’s because you don’t have eyes. But I’m pretty sure it’s not the latter, because if you have ears you must have eyes. And everyone knows walls have ears.
It must be those little tablets I’m supposed to take. They’re also white so you must be family. They could be your eyes.
I like your eyes. They entrance me. I become captivated by their nothingness. I drift. As if everything is okay…
Letter to the girl in room 241
We’re trying to work through your anger. It’s going well, but there’s so much of it to get through. And you never reveal the truths that are deeper than the surface.
Or maybe you do, but only in riddles.
There’s something I need to tell you. Time is running out. If we don’t fix you soon they’re going to move you. Somewhere no one ever leaves.
I’d really like you to get better.
Also, my name is not really Dr. Lamington. I’m afraid my real name will scare you, but it’s time for you to remember. Do you know who I am?
There’s something else.
I love you.