Dear M.

I know we haven’t talked much lately but that is not the point. It's the idea of your being near, existing somewhere alongside me, which I find comforting. Said so, I am slightly sad at your leaving. I know it isn't even a long departure, but still.

I hold you in deep regard,

L.

p.s. (after I blurted my feelings on social media, demanding you pay attention to me –I apologize. I am unstable these days.)

I have adopted a new routine today. I alternate between reading (currently, Salinger’s Franny & Zooey) and watching a tv show cleverly titled, Person of Interest (A work of Nolan’s. Not him, his brother). I read about 5-8 pages and then I watch about 10-15 minutes of an episode, repeat ad infinitum (is this a proper use of this phrase?). It is a good routine I believe. I am doing this because I refuse to fall into a stupor that one is apt to when reading a book. I refuse to be stupefied and fall into a mind-world of agonizing ideas. Books do that. I despise how it kills my footing on solid reality.

I had half a mind to write you a letter before you leave. But there is no sense in it. We are much too close nowadays. It feels absolutely ridiculous. Yes, yes, I am writing to you. Once again. My audience, my subject, my friend.

Korea. It is winter over there. I do not have anything to say on the matter. I do not know anything about Korea. But travelling, that I do know, a little. Travelling transports you from your routine. It’s wonderfully tiring and exciting and tedious at the same time. Exhilaration and exhaustion; that is what travelling is.

Back to Salinger. Re-reading Franny at this age, at this point in my life, I find it most impressive. Her preoccupations are relevant to me now. That Salinger could write something both modern and religious is a feat. One can argue if the work is at all religious or in fact irreligious. The point being, God is brought to focus. The seeking of God. The all-important, inevitable existential crisis. Franny is also perfect in the sense that the outcome is not spelled out to the readers. Maybe because there is no outcome. A perpetual state of restlessness...

"Yes. No. I don't know." - I think this line from Salinger's Franny describes you perfectly. In fact, the entirety of Fanny fits into you perfectly. No matter the uncanny resemblance you are not Franny. I want you to know that. I feel it is important. So, remember this. Please. 

That aside, L. (not me, that poet/book publisher friend of yours) have been emailing me on and off since Sunday last week. I have been diligent in replying them. Another new acquaintance of yours, which you have kindly passed on to me. You do that. This, collection of misfits you pick up and from God knows where. I do not know how you do it. Must be that bounteous enigma in you. Some invisible pull. (I shall check myself here, I’m afraid). Anyway, L. Is it odd that I find myself irritated that I have spoken/written/whatever the proper lingo is, to him more often than with you throughout this week? I do not know what it is. It is not like I have anything to say to you. Not really.

You have asked me variations of the question “Are you alright?” multiple times in the sparse mobile messages (I despise the specific mentioning of social media in letters. It takes the romance out of writing) and all I ever say is “I’m alright.” It is as if I have lost all ability to confide in anybody ergo find myself going quite crazy during my solitary afternoons. Most of the time I keep myself preoccupied, but when the effect of the activity has worn off I feel a deep void springing beneath the feet of my metaphorical self in my mind. The gap yawns ever wider and I fall into its maw for various hours, minutes or seconds.

I have no real reason to not be alright. The world is suffering. War is rampant, violence the norm, oppression a routine. I do not have the right to feel this way. I have begged myself to stop feeling so (God, I wish I could swear) …ungenerous. I am an uncharitable, moody and lonely person lately. The dawning realization of change has me feeling like a part of me has died. I am a creature of habits. Change never sits well with me on its advent. Once settled, I will be fine.

That life will forever end up being this. A passionless clockwork trudging to and fro from work, only to return, exhausted and unmotivated. I have went to work. During those placements back in university. Work kills the creative mind. It sucks the energy for inspiration. I did not like it. I do not think I ever will. Not in the field of pharmacy anyway.

But I know. God has planned things as is best for our spiritual needs. I have asked time and again that I be put in situations that will beget The Good End. Yet I find myself in these situations where I know in my bones to be the thoughts of a foolish ingrate. I am human. I understand. I am alright most times and when I am not I need only remember this: One cannot love the here and now and the Hereafter. Not at once. If the heart is detached from this world, perhaps it is God telling us to turn to Him and seek Him for comfort. I must try harder. As ever. (I use ‘Ever’ a lot nowadays. It is a word I have grown into.)

60% of the time, I am a self-righteous mess all the time. I am slightly drunk now (not in the literal sense, God, please), as I always end up being when I start writing to you. Anyway.

That is all. Have a safe trip. Remember that prayer for travelling I sent you when you went to Japan. I can’t text it to you because I still have no mobile number (it is that reluctance to accept that my life has changed, which I mentioned to you).

Ever yours,

L.

p.p.s. I wonder when you will read this. Do tell when you have. Although my nature tells me I'll probably get rid of this once my ego's deflated.