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August 17th, 2002
My
Please, forgive me for the amount of time which has taken me to write a response, especially after everything you have expressed in your previous letter. I kept reading it, reading it over, and over again, and I was unable to believe that there is truth in your words, that you miss my presence, that you think of me, that I mean anything at all to you. I was at work when I first read it, and I felt so very weak that I had to sit and breathe, breathe, through the very kind of light-heartedness that comes with elation. My mind was empty, and I cannot believe myself when I say such words, but it was a light, light sort of feeling. Light, as in, the absence of burden. Light, as in, radiance of dawn at daybreak.
My m my d dea My dear, may I call you that?
My dear, I must inform you that I have found myself exiled from hell, for they have somehow found out how I have managed to obtain your address. Oh, how else was I supposed to find out where you are? Please, do not get me wrong, I have asked them, polite as always, before resorting to more drastic measures. I asked them!
I kept asking, and asking, and asking, and
When they told me to pack my belongings, I
Felt something erupting within me
Felt as if something was flooding my senses, overtaking
it felt as if something has dislodged within me, and I no longer thought straight, instead finding myself thinking in jagged, meandering lines, red, red like welts, red like I said some terrible things, with my tongue forked and dripping with such acid, burning, scorching but I assure you that I did not mean the words that I have said to the superintendent. I am grateful. I did not mean for the words to feel as good as they did.
Dear Lord, all I did was to point out the truth, the reality right in front of their very eyes, each and every inch of that wretched place imbued with agony and sorrow!
Forgive me, there is a disconnect between my mind and my body, especially in times of recalling torment such as this, but I cannot waste paper, I cannot waste anything, I have wasted so much already.
My time with you is one of those things, no, not the fact that I have spent my time with you, but how I have spent it. I could have given you more than I have. You deserve more than I have to offer, but I have pledged to myself that I will do what I can to be able to give you just that. I want to become something else, do you understand what I mean when I say this? I want to rip apart tear open rearrange myself into something greater, something that is truly worth your l lov precious, precious time. We are only granted so much of it. If only I could take the parts of me which remain steeped in shame and rust and rot, gouge
Enough, enough. I have moments like these, and they do not stop until I permit myself to think about is you, softly unlocking my door, softly, please, I get very fearful these days, the disgusting coward that I am, and finding myself overtaken by the sweetest scent (thank you for fulfilling the wish I have expressed in my previous letter). You put your hands on me, then, without asking for permission because you know that I would let you do anything to me. You have never approached me with anything other than l lov a gentleness which lies beyond my understanding, but I choose not to question it. I choose not to question it, instead wilfully giving myself to you, a voluntary surrender as you soothe me. I am no longer burning, then, my world turning it's hues from red to a placid sea-spray.
Do you think me disgusting to have such thoughts? To see me so unashamed to share them with you? I am ashamed, you see, but the pain of keeping all of this within my mind proves to be too much. I understand if I sicken you, now, I understand if you fear me, I understand if you resolve to ceasing all contact with me.
I understand everything, you see. May I still write you with you knowing this? There is so much which you have written about that I want to comment on, yes, I do, I want to feel a part of it all somehow, if you let me, but I need to know, have I terrified you by my confessions?
I will stay away, if you wish, I will do anything you bide me to do. You can find my new address at the top. A dirty, dirty apartment, dirty and disease-ridden like me.
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There is a juxtaposition, of course, between wishing to be listened to and understood, and wielding riddles and puzzles as a tool to communicate.
It is easy to assume that the logical approach would be to simplify your methods of communication, the way you speak, or convey information to others in a way which is as clear as possible. I think that in Edward's case, there is that bitterness, a venom which grows ever more poisonous the longer he indulges it, however (and, I am not a believer in diluting yourself in order to appease others, but that is besides the point). He had to work so very hard all his life, an entire lifetime spent in the throes of the ultimate torture device, his own mind. He wants others to feel that, too, to have to work for it, to feel the extent of his pain, as much as he wants them to play with him, too. Perhaps, if they see how good it feels to think of possible solutions, how good it is to feel themselves reaching enlightenment, they will understand why he does what he does, too.
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