Heavy hearts have great trouble with happiness. More so the longer it lingers
Dear you,
There's no beginning to this story. At least I don't think so. And I
don't know exactly when I began to entertain the idea that there is.
Perhaps it might be accurate to start from the belly of my mother. Back
when I could not be responsible for anything, and if it might be the
ruining of a youthful life my parents might have desperately been trying
to hold onto, I still would not take the blame. I still don't. So where
might I begin? I reckon anywhere I'd like, for no matter the day or
second, each one was just as much my life as the other.
My life is quite amazing right now. It wasn't always this easy. Easy moments in life, the ones we prayed
for, god walking or heathen strutting, they had a funny way of never
showing their face. When they did, they only served as a reminder for
what you had when they passed. Oh, and they passed quickly.
It might make sense to start with the death of my God mother. I
will say that I do not have many memories of her, but of the ones I
have, I remember her being very important to my life. The usage of the
word "remember" seems a bit off as I am not relying on memories
inherently for importance, but rather just that she wasn't around too
often, and I was young and we had very little concern for adult affairs
when Power Rangers were on. I could start here that way you understood
how the struggle with the loss of her and death in general shaped my
young life until I was eighteen. That seems a tad bit dark, however. Yet, where could I go that isn't?
The proper response to that question would be that I should start at a
place so close to nowhere. This means, at least I've come to understand
it, that I should start wherever the hell I feel is me at my best and
my weakest. That's quite the combination there, wouldn't you say? I
think I know where that is! It's a place where I was young, under the
impression that I was happy (Who knows, maybe I was.), and when I
thought I had everything figured out. I was twenty-three, my book had just
been published, and I was living in a four bedroom apartment with my
best friends Jude, Tyrell, Riley, Caleb, and Sufjan. My life was perfect, or so I
thought it was, until she came in, they went out, and I began the
countdown to my self-destruction. There were no red wires to cut to stop
it.
I owe my heart a debt. I fell in love, it paid the price. I don't
know how it all happened, any of it really. I mean, my interest is
rarely purchased. Yet when it is, my attention tends to
be up for only rental. Still, at times, depending on the level of draw, I
might be compelled to stay. When I stay, I always hope it doesn’t
become
something bothersome. Because I love with everything I have, and when
abandoned, I’m left in poverty. Oh and what great prices we pay, for
love and
attachment, as inflation rises over time, and we’re left with nothing
after but a bill from a debt we owe a broken heart. And it’s knocking
hard.
I don't fully understand yet what came over me. What electrified my
hands to life, gave the drive to put my thoughts into a fucked up pile
of events for you to read. Now that I think of it, perhaps it's because
of you. I hope you don't misunderstand what I mean. I love you, sure,
but you were always hard to care about. Yet still, this is my story, not
yours, no matter how great the impact you've had
on me. Perhaps I started to write this in order to keep myself sane. In
some twisted way to remind myself all I've been through, should I ever
force myself to forget.
Most of all, I hope I began to write this book
so that you might understand even more the person I am, why I say what I
say, and why I do what I do. I don't say this because I think of myself
the hardest puzzle humans have yet to crack. No, I say this because
sometimes I wake up and have no idea who I am. Sometimes I look into the
water and see an image that I remember, but the blur always makes it
seem foreign and so far removed. I didn't write the book on abandonment, loneliness, and misery, I didn't invent any of them either. Yet I sure
as hell am writing a book on them. In the process, I hope I find the cure to all this. Honestly, maybe after this is done I'll
understand those things as well. If all goes well, maybe someone will.
If that's possible.
Be strong,
Salinger Wise
