December 25, 2018
3,886.
Hey Sammy,
You must be about 36 now. You're older than me when I came to this place. You might have learned by now that most of us eventually make it to a place that we noticed something about someone else and thought, you know, "Well, I would never do that", until you wake up someday and realize that you are that thing you thought you'd never be and doing things that you told yourself you'd never do.
That's scary by itself, but that's still not what losing your humanity is like. That's another step and beyond that, I'm afraid to know. I don't wanna be here for that, but I know I will be. When it happens, I don't know how many more Dear Johns I've got in me. Around the time you start to think that having the four layers of your skin sequentially peeled off, or when the private thoughts these dicks encouraged you to write in the first place are broadcast to the millions around you -- the minute you'd start to think that kinda thing is mundane -- they change it up. You start to feel really naive, thinking that there's such a thing as privacy anymore. Not for things like us. Then after a while, you just don't care. I'm still writing. I care about that. I don't care what they do with it anymore.
It sorta feels liberating or like you accomplished something, being such a rare meat. You know, people can take a lot. Our parts have a capacity for pain and suffering that you and I never really made it to when I was topside. Makes me start to want to explore that and see what I'm still made of. Makes sure there's a part of me somewhere in there that's still human. Hopefully see a little shred of humanity dangling off the next time they slice you open. Sometimes it's still there, but usually it's not or I've missed seein it for one reason or another. Chew on that, Sam. Every time you think it's the last time you'll ever see it, that shred, and you're completely broken. You give up. And then, the next time, it's back. Those circles of hope - that idea you're getting better - hanging onto yourself - and getting it ripped right back out is the worst part. Times like that, they spin their wheels a lot reminding me what I've forgotten. It hurts to listen to someone else tell you what you forgot. That they know and you don't. Like having amnesia, but havin' it so bad that you don't even know. Always remember you, though, Sammy. You're the one thing I can't forget about. They can't make me forget.
I'm sorry these are so, uh, informative about how things are, but it's just in case. I don't want you to ever come here, but if you do, I'm bettin all my chips that you can still recognize me. I don't know if I would recognize you, so when you get here, promise me you'll wake me up, okay.
- your brother
Hey Sammy,
You must be about 36 now. You're older than me when I came to this place. You might have learned by now that most of us eventually make it to a place that we noticed something about someone else and thought, you know, "Well, I would never do that", until you wake up someday and realize that you are that thing you thought you'd never be and doing things that you told yourself you'd never do.
That's scary by itself, but that's still not what losing your humanity is like. That's another step and beyond that, I'm afraid to know. I don't wanna be here for that, but I know I will be. When it happens, I don't know how many more Dear Johns I've got in me. Around the time you start to think that having the four layers of your skin sequentially peeled off, or when the private thoughts these dicks encouraged you to write in the first place are broadcast to the millions around you -- the minute you'd start to think that kinda thing is mundane -- they change it up. You start to feel really naive, thinking that there's such a thing as privacy anymore. Not for things like us. Then after a while, you just don't care. I'm still writing. I care about that. I don't care what they do with it anymore.
It sorta feels liberating or like you accomplished something, being such a rare meat. You know, people can take a lot. Our parts have a capacity for pain and suffering that you and I never really made it to when I was topside. Makes me start to want to explore that and see what I'm still made of. Makes sure there's a part of me somewhere in there that's still human. Hopefully see a little shred of humanity dangling off the next time they slice you open. Sometimes it's still there, but usually it's not or I've missed seein it for one reason or another. Chew on that, Sam. Every time you think it's the last time you'll ever see it, that shred, and you're completely broken. You give up. And then, the next time, it's back. Those circles of hope - that idea you're getting better - hanging onto yourself - and getting it ripped right back out is the worst part. Times like that, they spin their wheels a lot reminding me what I've forgotten. It hurts to listen to someone else tell you what you forgot. That they know and you don't. Like having amnesia, but havin' it so bad that you don't even know. Always remember you, though, Sammy. You're the one thing I can't forget about. They can't make me forget.
I'm sorry these are so, uh, informative about how things are, but it's just in case. I don't want you to ever come here, but if you do, I'm bettin all my chips that you can still recognize me. I don't know if I would recognize you, so when you get here, promise me you'll wake me up, okay.
- your brother