292/ July 2, 2011 - Postmaster error
Please understand that this is simply what he does— a protocol to deal with pain, a modus to make up for misery. He chops letters in half, beheads them, his able pen slicing through a slaughter of words (dead to begin with, he says, he reuses old love letters). He hardly uses “Dear” when he begins writing. He never addresses, or he does not mean to. He writes letters not for anyone except himself. He likes writing because it makes him sound pretty. There’s a parenthesis in there s o m e w h e r e, so listen to the lilt and lull of my voice.
Of course I was going to find out. You fool / foolish / you only fool yourself. Some of these girls are actually my friends. Especially my friends.
I am writing this as mere fact. I am an outsider now, and this is what I’ve observed. He scours through lists and names and old (near) acquaintances with hopes to send letters to every willing recipient, every wide-eyed, brown-haired, heavy breasted reader, hoping to enthrall them, faze them into thinking he was writing to them, for them. My pretties, I apologize in advance. I, once, was also a recipient of such a letter. And boy did I bite hard.
I am writing this not because I am mad we ever ended. I am writing this because I, oh ineffable I, have been punctuated into rote, rudimentary, roll call routine. In time, this shall also be her fate. Thank you, and good day.
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