something about tonight

Dear K,

It's me again. I don't know why, but tonight is a night for a mental release, catharsis. I'm going to hollow my nerves out for a while here. Don't take anything too seriously, unless you want to.

How prepared are you for my neuroses? You probably know them all already, but at the rate we're going you're going to be on the receiving end of an out pouring. Winter is starting and so is my seasonal misery in repose.

I love winter, as I love self-pity and sorrow and wallowing and crying and grieving for things that never happened and things that did and the possibilities in between, as I love the cold wind on my face and the feeling of my body shutting down as the temperature drops, and fighting back and prickling and numbing and beating and dying and all while staring at the stars walking alone with my back to the wind.

I love winter, but nobody loves me in winter.

I just thought I'd warn you that I'm going to become insufferable and pessimistic in email form, on the phone I'll probably be the usual cheery optimist everyone meets. But you might detect a tone or a pause or a swallow, and I'll play it off as being tired, and it is important that you allow me to think that I've fooled you into believing nothing is wrong, that is an important part of this game.

Are you ready for winter?


And then there's that whole issue about our escape. Can we pretend that I only invited you?

I'm so alone here.

I spend every minute of the day in my head, up the staircase of my fantasies, and it has been a long time since I came down. The next part won't make sense, and I'm trying hard not to delete it right now and forget I ever wrote it, but I try to be honest with you, and I'm not even sure what I mean in the next paragraph but I know that it is honest and earnest.

I need to write love letters. Can I write them to you until we agree that I shouldn't? I'll write them and you'll read them and they won't even have to be about you if you don't want them, they could be if you wanted them but that's not what they are, love letters are like flowers thrown onstage there is a an aim and a target but while they are in the air they belong to nobody, and when they land at the feet of the cast they mean nothing until they are picked up and claimed.

How would you feel about me throwing flowers at your feet?

You don't have to pick them up,
K