Letters I will never send, part 1
Prefatory remark:
My Dear Blog Readers-
I would like to remind each and every one of you that I keep my blog for me. It’s out there for you to view, but that’s only so I keep myself honest and not too ridiculous. I like the thought of your eyes scouring my material, picking out bits and pieces that you can use to call me on my shit.
But it’s for me. If it’s boring, or cryptic, or sometimes weird, I’m not really sorry for it. Not at all.
Thank you for (maybe not) reading!
Jesse
Dear ---,
Do you ever get tired of pretending? I know I do. Sometimes things are electric. Other times I get my shit straight, remind myself what’s decent and what’s not. Like, at that party. She was 19. Ridiculous. I use those moments to remind myself that I have some sensibilities left, that I’m not just a socially maladjusted scholar. But really, most of the time I don’t pay attention to conventions. Like, I have to actively think about it. A little voice doesn’t chime in; I have to go search for him and ask for advice. So when I stop thinking about what is appropriate, it feels like what I imagine Tesla’s laboratory was like. Cold, rigid with energy. Hairs standing up. Electric. Most of the time things are electric. Especially now.
I have three regrets in my life. Three. Maybe four. Probably more. At any rate, I’m tired of collecting them. They’re heavy. They’re scars you carry, ones that lovers ask you about as they dance across you with fingertips and a gaze, things you have to relive for them, sometimes for yourself when you look in the mirror. No one likes these scars. And yes, you learned-they are lessons, not regrets. You still wish it was different. Don’t tell me you don’t wish it was different. No one believes that anyway. Things don’t happen for a reason. Sometimes things get fucked up. Sometimes things stay fucked up. Sometimes things, however insightful, really weren’t worth the shit you put up with to realize them. So. Now. Pause for a moment and let’s just meditate on how we are responsible for the direction of our own existence. Really. Pause.
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OK? OK. Now.
Do we really want to regret this, too?