i can only hope that this message reaches you in time...
i'm right here, waiting for an answer that i know is never going to come. so to pass the time, i sit here writing poorly reasoned arguments for my own existence. it's an endless (read: worthless) exhaustion of my limited resources, but i do it anyway, for my own pleasure and satisfaction. it's something hopeless, that can not be explained with our beautiful yet tragic words. the best i can hope for is for Death to come sooner than i expect it to. what a miraculous sensation, Death. i'm sure that for all my longing now, that when the time comes around, i'll stare him down with my trembling, tearful gaze. because Death is nothing compared to the behemoth that i've got chained up in the back of my shack that i call a home. if i've conquered that thing, then i can't imagine that Death will be any worthy adversary. humanity bears scars of battles lost and won, but ultimately it's the way that we are remembered that matters. we're on the verge of the abyss, a bottomless pit that we dug ourselves. but it's ironically inhumane how our own creation wreaks havoc on our pure, unadulterated souls after we come tearing furiously out of the womb, like a searing comet making it's mark on the murky tar-black sky of the night. we're not even completely human anymore. what is it to be human? i'm not a sage, so i can't possibly answer that, but i do know with complete certainty that i'll never be able to buy humanity. in a place where buying a shirt leaves me naked and wretchedly sobbing in my poorly lit room at 4 in the afternoon, what hope is there for the race of man? it's our own pit bull that's bit us, our own euphoric flame that has reached out and wrapped it's neon-bladed hand around our entire being. but it's like i said, what really matters is how they will remember us. i sometimes think about how they will remember me. will i be a ghost, under shadow of some supreme Dharmic being. or shall i be the fulfiller, the final reincarnation of Vishnu, ready to create of destroy at the flick of a wrist, ending myself to bring salvation to the people chosen by some great Over-being. or shall i live forever, with you by my side, wistfully watching the sun set on the mountainous horizon each and every day. after a bit of thinking, i decided that the last choice is what i most dearly wish for. we're both wounded by a silent gunshot to our backs, but we talk like the world around us is both beautiful and monstrous. oh, if you only knew how i dream of each and every word you've spoken, turning it over in my subconcious mind, treating it as a holy mantra for hope and illumination. it's better than the Hare Krishna. i told you once before, but it must have seemed frivolous and childish. i admit wholeheartedly, it was like you were Jane Goodall with an ape. you hadn't yet awakened this existential despair and longing, but we are both so beautiful and strong. i may not be the best suitor that you've recieved, especially when you consider my hephaestus beauty. but i can guarantee you, with formerly unspeakable truth, that i can do something extraordinarily unique. Ha! that, of all things, is what i so dearly yearn for. there may be many others like me, even more far superior, but it's only me sitting here with my heart in my throat, writing this letter to you. even if you only see me as some Mohammedan prophet, to share tragic and humorous anecdotes freely and unjudgingly, i feel something so powerful that it's seething underneath my iron will. but now, i've somehow channeled this furious power, this explosive, occasionally divergent might into something barely legible, yet unshakeably powerful to me. this is my tantric love, my holy scripture of devotion. and think of this: you were my Melpomene, my muse of Tragedy, my chanting one. it's your profound yet well-intentioned misinterpretation of me that i weep over. i can't blame you, or anyone, really, but myself. it's my cowardice, my weakness, my angst-driven madness that calls to me secretly that has led to this tragic, laughable misunderstanding. i've said this before, briefly, and in base and uninviting and sudden words. but that was unsuitable for a wingless angel such as yourself. you deserve more than a few words spoken quickly by a fool. you deserve something like letter, this complete analysis of my deep and abiding respect for you. this must seem a bit sudden, a bit too fast for your refined tastes. but i'm a vulgar man, who moves quickly from place to place, basking in the sunlight as if it's my birthright. perhaps i expect too much. perhaps i am being fooled by my own illusory hopes and ambitions. i've always kept my expectations low, but i now feel the need to have faith in something, someone, you. it's a mystical energy flowing red-hot through my veins, like the Styx on a saturday night in 1969. how ridiculous i must seem. you're probably thinking that this is a joke, some sort of farcical attempt at expression. but this was necessary, and it came upon me so quickly and unexpectedly that i could barely believe my eyes. i can barely believe them now, looking back at this unutterable conviction that i stumbled upon. i was thinking about it just the other day, with fewer words, and more ambitious yearnings mumbled to a friend in a dusty coffeehouse. it's such an explosive thing to me, how far we can travel by sitting on a bench in the park. we sit and speak of lost passion and tigers, and when we journey into the realm of theory and musings, i can see the blinding light of God and you. it frequently leaves me speechless. yet there are always these extraneous activities, these worthy and necessary interruptions to our lawless fun. there is meaning in those heart-racing conversations, at least to me. my worst fear is that this is a charity for you, a pitiful yet vaguely amusing curiosity that you frequently retell to your friends as some sort of joke. this has been something i was searching for, and it would be devastating if this simple letter made me lose it. but sometimes i think that you've erected these fences around yourself. you're wandering through the dark forest, waiting for the wolves to come, afraid yet so honestly yearning for that reprieve to come, at least in my mind. i know, because i'm the same way. they say that we all want happiness, but how could i want it if it kills me with the fresh and murderous knives of ignorance? it's so hard to distrust everything, to be an eternal skeptic, even of yourself. ideologically, you couldn't possibly burden yourself with this. it's a laudable insight into the heart of humanity, that deep & hopeless cave that no light or hope dare enter. soon they will come and strip my crown from my head. this is a heathen's prayer, an eternally desperate resorative attempt at something resembling human emotion. besides that, what i am attempting to get out of this is unknown to me. it's like some sort of cathartic release, something that i haven't done for a very long time. when you get to be like me, you keep a lot of things to yourself, you know. it's a sad thing, repression. but like the four horsemen of the apocalypse riding out of the mouth of Hell, i expect this to end with disappointment. the demons never really scared me enough. it was more of an abject fascination. i can retell a thousand and one stories, but i never did anything for myself. it's about time that i stopped weeping over the rose in the closet. but now i'm starting to get absurd and repetitive. i could write this forever, retelling the same story, thinking far too much for my own good. i hope this isn't too maudlin, not too serious or overwrought. like i said too many times, it came exploding out of me, uncontrollable in a public library downtown. this is the most honest i'll ever get. but you know me by now. i wish i could tell it to you straight, but i'm a shameful man, and you're smart enough to know that this is for you. thanks for the ride.
with you on the american hajj,