Dear K-
I’d ask you to forgive me, but I have trouble even forgiving myself these days. My life has been a wilderness, and I’ve become the naughty child who wanders off alone and off the path. Why should I be startled, then, by the twigs and branches which snap against my face and limbs? Why should I cry out in surprise when I feel the bite of the thorns and brambles against my flesh? When I decide to start deviating from the “planned course” of my life, I should surely expect to encounter a few unpleasant thickets.
I can’t go back there. my dreams are empty now. my memories are less like elaborately painted masterpieces and more like snowflakes which flutter and drift as small hazy specks across my face, leaving only a small sting of cold to even hint at their existence before they melt away into obscurity once more. I sat for hours today pondering a note I found scribbled upon an old notepad from a year ago. It asked simply “where does trolley 37 go to sleep?”
I couldn’t remember. I used to know every cobblestone, every jumbled Slavic street name, but now I can’t even recall such a trivial fact of where the autobus 37 shut down for the night.
I miss you, but somehow I don’t think it makes a difference. We’ve become each other, don’t you get it? Am I really missing you, or am I only missing myself? When I look into the mirror and find my nose bloody, am I the culprit? This slick, near-black blood that smears over my fingertips (our fingertips?) seems more like the juice of a summer blackberry than something so precious, so necessary for my life.
Speaking of life, the doctor told me that my heart skips beats.
Mendlovo namesti. Fucking mendlovo namesti. That’s where the 37 goes to sleep.
Regrettably mistaken,
-K
