Letter to S.K.

Dear S.,

We haven’t talked in years, five to six perhaps, and I’m still sorry about how things ended. Though there was no specific end, it was more like a wheel that stopped turning, nothing drastic, and nothing dramatic.

I admit I was angry, but at the same time happy for you. People do choose their love over friends; sometimes, it happens. And I don’t resent you.

The only reason you are the addressee here is that you won’t reply to this, not to mention read this. However, I will gradually begin to miss you more than ever as this letter continues…

I don’t think I’ve ever had a closer friend in school. People used to think we had a thing for each other because we were writing each other letters, long, long letters.

And we lived on the same street, less than 15 minutes walk from each other.

The last thing I heard from your sister was that you married the girl. Without inviting me. Without letting me know. And you quit your job to go back to school.

Sometimes I ask myself why, whether it was true that her jealousy drove you to let go of me as a buddy.

I never used to be jealous, but after dating people who were–made me become like them. They’ve been hurt, so to save themselves, they choose to hurt you before you hurt them.

It’s like a person with PTSD who rejects people before getting rejected.

I don’t want to become what I hate…

Ha, remember how easy-going I used to be. Even though people never change, we all change as we grow older with experiences.

Speaking of which, I’m sorry for being so insensitive by filling you in with my boy problems in the past; there was no one else understanding enough to listen. And you never gave me any implications about how you felt about me. So I never really knew. And I never asked.

I wonder what you’re doing these days or how you’re doing. Back then, I never believed that true love existed. I do hope that she’s making you happy. I remember you telling me that you had a thing for shorthaired redheads. I hope she’s worth it.

Or maybe things have changed, but I don’t know anything about you right now. Maybe it’s better this way.

I know I just touched upon this, but do you think that people change? Or do they change their perception, the point of view, and nothing more? I agree that we need other people in our lives to help reflect on ourselves; maybe their perception of you can help you become a better person.

I have always been scared of compromises. It sounds like the need to change and adapt, and then there is pressure. Nonetheless, I’m compromising, and given who I’m, I’m struggling too. After all, I’m still me, the me who can’t reconnect with her writing persona at the moment. That’s the only thing that makes me feel alone and sad these days.

I’m trying to follow my dreams, execute the plans that I have in mind, but I lack the motivation and ambition. I need so much time for implementation; therefore, work is coming along slowly. It still takes me two to three hours to write a single paragraph. So imagine how bad of a talker I still am. In all seriousness, I don’t even know how to articulate myself in German anymore. I don’t even want to open my mouth, but everyone wants to hear things, even the most insignificant thing.

I just bought The Dunwich Horror by HP Lovecraft because his writing involves so much spite, and God knows why I can relate to this spiteful voice! It’s just like the detached voice of Patrick Bateman or the voice of any of Houellebecq’s characters, or Cioran’s perfect description of us, “vertical carrions.” It’s like speaking my soul or pretending to be someone I’m not. And yes, that’s when fiction serves as meditation.

Do you think anyone would even understand if I explained it to them? That I like goriness and monster personalities in fiction just because they help filter and numb my own feelings and anger? They would all call me fucked up. Fucked up…

Well, at least I’m working on my emotions, aren’t I? It could be worse, a lot worse.

Back in those days when we were still writing to each other almost regularly, I still had it; I didn’t even need motivation; it all just flowed naturally. Our love for Kafka was inspiring enough to write 20-page letters.

I wish I could tell you in person about my current adventure. Maybe your sister has been following my updates and told you about me. She and I haven’t spoken in a while. I hope she is well.

Selfishly enough, I don’t want you to forget about me.

“Friends come in and out of our lives, like busboys in a restaurant.”

I am going to accept this.

Despite my struggle to write, my adventure is a good one. It doesn’t matter where I am; I will do the same things repeatedly; it’s just with different people at different places. And if I’m smart enough, I will avoid making the same mistakes again.

However, I will always remember you as young Werther, not with the sorrows, because Charlotte loves you. I am Wilhelm, who is happy for you…


Yours, P.

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