I miss you so much.
The more I enhance your existence by immersing in your architectural dimension (that I created), the more I feel alive. If only I had more time. I know this sentiment is mutual, but you are holier than I’ll ever be–more intelligent, more reserved.
And since I’ve been reluctantly taking steps into madness every day, I feel ashamed you have to witness it. There is simply nothing that I can hide from you, especially when the nimbus has arrived. It’s not difficult to find me, and yet I wonder why he hasn’t seen me by now. Maybe you could leave him a trail for me?
The veins in my hands have turned purple from holding the strings. The puppet has gained a lot of weight from consuming too much guilt and shame. And this is why plants die on me. Plants can sense these unpleasant energies. I’ve been teaching him the dance of solitude to give him some exercise. But apparently, the energy that I transmit through the strings makes him cry. I guess you’d be a better teacher than me. I’m no master of disguise, and you know that.
Aren’t you tired of people complaining about the cold? There is so much heat that we could inflict on them. I want that—everyone who deserves it.
I envy you for your successful career. You have worked hard, but so have I–for seventeen years. The path is long, and more obstacles have occurred along the way. The rest of the track remains obscure. Recently, the impediments have been demoralizing and undermining my ability to control the strings. I know I shouldn’t let them. But you know me.
I’m sorry for the way I’ve treated you. I told you that self-fulfilment didn’t exist, at least not in the way we think. In the end, I just wanted you to be successful with your passions. But I’m sorry I didn’t grant you fulfilment. If guilt had wings, I’d fly to the sun. Fulfilment is not meant for anyone. Not you. Not me. Not them.
So what else is going on in your life? How challenging is it to be a heart surgeon? It’s incredible how little I know about what you do, and yet, I can heal as many hearts as you can, except for ours. It’s not fair if you think about it.
Why do you call the thorax the gate to the heart? You’ve never been the kitschy type, but since Mr. Whitley’s operation, you have changed. What happened to you? Are you in love with him? Come on; he has a girlfriend. Besides, he is old enough to be your grandfather. Don’t let him throw you off balance and mess with your head. Don’t get involved with a feeling that’s foreign to you. You know who you are.
And beware of Stuart’s mind games. I know it’s hard to read him, but just be yourself–callous.
I wouldn’t be surprised if my words fell on deaf ears. I know what’s going on. Sometimes we ask ourselves how far we should let someone in. Let their fingers glide along the surface of our skin, or let them dig into our flesh? I know you like it both ways, as long as a sharp object is involved.
You’re doing a great deal of keeping secrets, but the people out there empathize with you, which, for me, is a job well done. Unlike me, you never admit anything. Still, I’m glad we have so much in common.
So you are making good friends with Sarah, I believe? Doesn’t she hide patients’ biopsy specimens and eats them? She might be a good friend to make; you’ll never know.
I wish I’d meet people like that. I currently don’t trust the people around me. Like I shouldn’t have let my friend touch my laptop while still signed in on various platforms. She saw I was on Facebook and clicked on my Close Friends- list, saying, “You’d better have me in that list.” It was too late to say, “Stop.” She clicked it, and all she found was an empty list. When you explain that you don’t categorize people and hate them equally, she doesn’t understand. I won’t ever understand why the world needs so many explanations.
I have once let apathy suck me in, and I became devoid of any drastic reactions. You feel content for a while and then realize this is not the right state to dwell in, as it consumes all your sensitivity and reason. The distinction between right and wrong becomes irrelevant. So you begin to watch other people. You notice that wrong actions seem to upset them, and suddenly, you can’t fight the itch to do more wrong. You know exactly what I mean, do not pretend you don’t.
Now is the first time that I no longer worry about it. Just watch the people, and you’ll know what to do.
The anesthetic from last time has had a significant effect on me, from throwing up to the realization that numbness is the kind of medication that strengthens the survival instinct. So far, all I need I can imagine.
I believe. I hope. I create. If I ever get bored, I borrow my characters’ pain without giving a shit. Isn’t that what alter egos are for?
I know you’re the same. But we’re not allowed to show.
When you operate, do you ever wonder what it’d be like chewing on that heart? I know you get these thoughts when you’re eating lunch and dinner, but what do you think about when you operate? You look at the calcified arteries in the heart, and what? I need you to be more specific. Do you ever feel like biting through it with your teeth?
In the OT, your mind is steady and sharp, just like mine, when the images of creativity are transparent, intense and vivid.
I miss these moments. They used to keep me slim and healthy. Now my body isn’t in good shape or health, and it feels like the heart has never been there in the first place. What happened to it? What happened to your heart? There is so much you can do with a heart: break it, eat it, rip it out.
I still believe that you care too much, but I need you to; otherwise, there’d be no plot, and you know how important it is. I couldn’t care less at the beginning, you remember. But it was F. who opened my eyes.
F. saw something he wasn’t supposed to see, and then he said he was glad to know me. That was probably the nicest thing someone had said to me in the last year.
Back then, I felt smart. And now behind my back, I hear mumbles–how I’m not good enough, incompetent. Maybe I’m obtuse at times, but I have my reasons.
I would do anything to swap places with you, despite the inevitable destiny that has marked the story; it has become more meaningful than me. The story has taken its own turn. I am no saviour; none of us are.
Take care of yourself.
by P-chan (c) 2012