Love Letters to No One
I have to say I do believe it’s getting better. Yes I really do believe that it’s getting better. Allow me to reiterate. Things are getting better. The lines I have in front of me are never the ones which are the right ones to say, so I mouth the right ones the best that I can although I do feel that it doesn’t sound sincere but sincerity is not what matters. Still, I tell you that it’s getting better, do you hear the way that that sounds? No, but as I was saying before I got confused was that it does not matter how sincere. It is I believe, a combination of an adequate approximation of sincerity and something that makes you one of the ones that are like a beetle that can creep along a ledge just creep along the ledge and not be bothered at all by it. I feel like this tenacity as a bug is something that one either possesses or one does not possess. And it is this which makes all the difference in your sincerity or lack thereof. I do not mean to disparage beetles I believe it is admirable. The beetle strolls across the ledge encountering other beetles and it knows how long to pause! No I admire it.
My forays into attempting to creep like a lady bug when I was supposed to but was not inclined to have never gone very well because I have always been incapable of adapting enough to stroll along that cement ledge. Although this lack of balance, as extreme as it has become at times is never called into question even by God, He let me keep going so I suppose that I must have passed just barely. Because I have always felt that if something were to actually be an unlivable aberration it would have to be stopped by something else, there had to be a point, I was sure which we always returned to but this has since turned out not to be the case and I’ll just stay here lying on the floor looking at the sides of the of whatever it is that I am at the bottom of and wondering about the conclusions a better person would draw from the texture of that rock wall surrounding me. What I want to know is if there is an external value to the way that I have been lying here and, although not in a way that is apparent to others, attempting to stand up. If this is not recognized if this is not seen by anyone but myself and the skies I want to know if it matters. You can say now if you read this that it is has resulted in this paragraph but you and I both know that that is not a result worth mentioning. And so everything that it takes to stand if seen by no one is this energy used and now dead because in theory one can grant her something, we can pay that dead woman a compliment, she was strong ,we say, but. But that cannot erase all that inherent death. This kind of living I believe is like writing love letters to no one over and over and over. Like making love to the world because you want it even though it doesn’t want you. In some sense it is beautiful but in the other it is just a joke or worse than that sick.
And still. We cannot place our “true selves,” as some terrible book put it, on top of our features for everyone to see. That would be distasteful. And unmasking ourselves, would not, I fear, solve the problem. I admit that I do often do this and cry in public when it is not a good idea and from the consequences I tell you that it doesn’t work out so well. If we took that shell like type thing off of the orange lady bugs they would die because they were exposed they wouldn’t be able bite anyone anymore. And so they would end up lying there on the ground too. Maybe all roads lead to …
When I was younger I lived on a dairy farm with a pasture and woods and there was all this green grass that I could have played in. But I liked to play underneath a bridge that was absolutely always completely muddy. Cows like to stand in mud and it would rain and they would go stand there and stir the mud up, and we would chase them out. I would arrange big rocks there in order. It was a path or bridge across the mud or something. I kept taking seeds from my mother and trying to make it a garden. I found a scissors to trim the flowers when they finally emerged. Of course nothing ever did grow, but I kept at it until we moved because I have never been one to let reality deter me.
What I got at just there was that I have always loved to go deep down into the absolutely senseless and want it to matter and matter and matter because I don’t know that I am able to conceive that I don’t matter. A facet of the human condition, I do believe, but one which becomes harder and harder to digest the further one descends away. And so I am tempted right now to write that maybe some person someday will notice that there are still three rocks arranged that way. And I’m tempted to leave that sentence hanging there, someday someone will look at those rocks and that will be enough, but I really don’t know that, and don’t know or can’t bring myself to admit that it might not.
My forays into attempting to creep like a lady bug when I was supposed to but was not inclined to have never gone very well because I have always been incapable of adapting enough to stroll along that cement ledge. Although this lack of balance, as extreme as it has become at times is never called into question even by God, He let me keep going so I suppose that I must have passed just barely. Because I have always felt that if something were to actually be an unlivable aberration it would have to be stopped by something else, there had to be a point, I was sure which we always returned to but this has since turned out not to be the case and I’ll just stay here lying on the floor looking at the sides of the of whatever it is that I am at the bottom of and wondering about the conclusions a better person would draw from the texture of that rock wall surrounding me. What I want to know is if there is an external value to the way that I have been lying here and, although not in a way that is apparent to others, attempting to stand up. If this is not recognized if this is not seen by anyone but myself and the skies I want to know if it matters. You can say now if you read this that it is has resulted in this paragraph but you and I both know that that is not a result worth mentioning. And so everything that it takes to stand if seen by no one is this energy used and now dead because in theory one can grant her something, we can pay that dead woman a compliment, she was strong ,we say, but. But that cannot erase all that inherent death. This kind of living I believe is like writing love letters to no one over and over and over. Like making love to the world because you want it even though it doesn’t want you. In some sense it is beautiful but in the other it is just a joke or worse than that sick.
And still. We cannot place our “true selves,” as some terrible book put it, on top of our features for everyone to see. That would be distasteful. And unmasking ourselves, would not, I fear, solve the problem. I admit that I do often do this and cry in public when it is not a good idea and from the consequences I tell you that it doesn’t work out so well. If we took that shell like type thing off of the orange lady bugs they would die because they were exposed they wouldn’t be able bite anyone anymore. And so they would end up lying there on the ground too. Maybe all roads lead to …
When I was younger I lived on a dairy farm with a pasture and woods and there was all this green grass that I could have played in. But I liked to play underneath a bridge that was absolutely always completely muddy. Cows like to stand in mud and it would rain and they would go stand there and stir the mud up, and we would chase them out. I would arrange big rocks there in order. It was a path or bridge across the mud or something. I kept taking seeds from my mother and trying to make it a garden. I found a scissors to trim the flowers when they finally emerged. Of course nothing ever did grow, but I kept at it until we moved because I have never been one to let reality deter me.
What I got at just there was that I have always loved to go deep down into the absolutely senseless and want it to matter and matter and matter because I don’t know that I am able to conceive that I don’t matter. A facet of the human condition, I do believe, but one which becomes harder and harder to digest the further one descends away. And so I am tempted right now to write that maybe some person someday will notice that there are still three rocks arranged that way. And I’m tempted to leave that sentence hanging there, someday someone will look at those rocks and that will be enough, but I really don’t know that, and don’t know or can’t bring myself to admit that it might not.