Fuck off world. World fuck off.
Write a letter to my dead husband, easy, fuck off! You broke our agreement, fuck off!
Write a letter to my dead brother, easy too fuck off you too, you left me alone to deal with it all, you broke our family, you broke our parents leaving no one to help and care now that i need it.
Write to myself when I was twelve, you are doing great, you did great, and please stop internalizing your parents’ fears, they will stop you from doing everything you like and they are not you fears. Please don’t listen to them chase the fears, not yourself.
Letter to myself when i am 75: see what you told yourself 35 years ago… How about you apply it now …
Stop telling the world to fuck off, stop accusing the world, stop with the anger, feel the pain, grow with the pain, don’t be afraid of it. Indulge in it, learn from it, move past it, with it in you, transformed. Stop running from yourself, stop berating yourself.
But then again, that was addressed to you, invisible public of my very public pains.
What do I do now? Now that I am alone in front of my mirror, alone with myself. What do I do? What do I say. I have no age because of Baudelaire’s famous “I have more memories than if I were a thousand year old”. It is me.
Yet, I do love. Yet, I do still believe.
Yet, … But not just yet.
Yet, but …. No, no, I cannot yet.
Yet, soviet, privet, private, no longer.
Sharing is caring, but not all is good to share.
Writing should remain elegant, and styled. It must not be vomited. Although I know some readers relish the thought of being vomited on…
All this and more but I only have five more minutes here.
I wish I could write as I did when I was fifteen. I was much wiser and deeper than I am today. Was it really me? Or was it but whom I pretended to be on paper?
Who was I who am I what have I become what has become of me where are my dreams?
My dreams are fine and so am I. So fuck you all and thank you for asking.