(no subject)
dear sebastian,
as you very well know, it's hard surviving on the sidewalk... of any street. all i carry with me is a colourless plastic bag, which has braved many frigid and desert-like temperatures.
i think that passersby would think nothing of contents they would find inside the bag, but here is where they would be wrong. of course, though, if they took a look inside the bag, i'm sure they would think that they were right.
what i keep inside this bag is anything linked to your life. i've kept every newspaper clipping that i could find which spoke of your execution, the tragic suicide of the girl whose named we later learned to be naomi, the near execution of myself, and the death of christina. i've gone through garbage can after garbage can -- when nobody was looking -- to find something with your name, with your picture on it. it's the only way that i can convince myself that you were alive at some point.
for the first time in years, i went to look at the place i used to live. i pretended to be taking a stroll through the neighbourhood, and then stopped in front of the house, hoping not to be noticed. needless to say, perhaps, that i didn't recognize it. the garden has perished and has been transformed into a play area. where they were curtains, you can now find blinds. my eyes went from the house to the garbage cans that lay on the curb. making sure nobody was looking, i approached it, removed the lid, and began to search. were you in there, on some piece of archived newspaper? was there a picture of naomi? of me?
i came to remember, with full-blown torture, why i am now living on the streets.
i found these objects inside the garbage can:
1) a postcard
2) another postcard
3) one of your drawings
4) a poster for my execution
unfortunately, i was too preoccupied with the objects i'd found, that i didn't notice the people passing by. they laughed at me while i rummaged through the garbage, with my hands soaked in dirt and my body dressed in an irrevocable stench. people walking by plugged their noses while they walked past me. a young boy yelled out, "YO! you stink!" and laughed mercilessly, while an elderly woman glared at me with her voice and murmured loudly, "going through a garbage can to feed her filthy garbage self."
i don't think either of these strangers knew it, but i struggled to hold back tears. and while i held my four discoveries to my heart, i realized just how alone i was... and am... and always shall be. and at the same time, i wondered how the people inside this home, who claimed to be my family, could think that any of this was worth throwing out. did they ever imagine that their daughter would someday have her nose in their garbage, searching frantically to prove something that no longer exists?
your lost (and never to be found) friend,
diana
as you very well know, it's hard surviving on the sidewalk... of any street. all i carry with me is a colourless plastic bag, which has braved many frigid and desert-like temperatures.
i think that passersby would think nothing of contents they would find inside the bag, but here is where they would be wrong. of course, though, if they took a look inside the bag, i'm sure they would think that they were right.
what i keep inside this bag is anything linked to your life. i've kept every newspaper clipping that i could find which spoke of your execution, the tragic suicide of the girl whose named we later learned to be naomi, the near execution of myself, and the death of christina. i've gone through garbage can after garbage can -- when nobody was looking -- to find something with your name, with your picture on it. it's the only way that i can convince myself that you were alive at some point.
for the first time in years, i went to look at the place i used to live. i pretended to be taking a stroll through the neighbourhood, and then stopped in front of the house, hoping not to be noticed. needless to say, perhaps, that i didn't recognize it. the garden has perished and has been transformed into a play area. where they were curtains, you can now find blinds. my eyes went from the house to the garbage cans that lay on the curb. making sure nobody was looking, i approached it, removed the lid, and began to search. were you in there, on some piece of archived newspaper? was there a picture of naomi? of me?
i came to remember, with full-blown torture, why i am now living on the streets.
i found these objects inside the garbage can:
1) a postcard
2) another postcard
3) one of your drawings
4) a poster for my execution
unfortunately, i was too preoccupied with the objects i'd found, that i didn't notice the people passing by. they laughed at me while i rummaged through the garbage, with my hands soaked in dirt and my body dressed in an irrevocable stench. people walking by plugged their noses while they walked past me. a young boy yelled out, "YO! you stink!" and laughed mercilessly, while an elderly woman glared at me with her voice and murmured loudly, "going through a garbage can to feed her filthy garbage self."
i don't think either of these strangers knew it, but i struggled to hold back tears. and while i held my four discoveries to my heart, i realized just how alone i was... and am... and always shall be. and at the same time, i wondered how the people inside this home, who claimed to be my family, could think that any of this was worth throwing out. did they ever imagine that their daughter would someday have her nose in their garbage, searching frantically to prove something that no longer exists?
your lost (and never to be found) friend,
diana