You have gone through much in life. Burnt, disappointed, empty, tired. You told me so, but there wasn't any need. I felt it the same way one feel a deep crack in fine glass.
Let me romanticize this wound, for the nature of itself provides dignity. And you cover it. Yes, good to be discrete. We, the world, show no mercy nor forgiveness to those who dear to try, to be, to love, to fight, to defend themselves, to keep, to believe. We show no respect to those who fails. I would like to give you amnesty, I sincerely do. Yet, it's hypocrisy. Why you? Or rather, why only you? I am the failure here. What is so hard about being a little kind?
Truth being said, I am quite jealous of you. I can only imagine what your story is. Well, I know you for many years, I knew some of your partners, and you too told me some situations. You have been used, no doubts here. And you have used people too. Betrayal, check, so is neglecting both from and to you. And finally those situations when both of you want just severely different ways to live... is that it? Is that what you are trying to tell me you have live through? Because if it's it, I have no idea. I didn't have any long term to begin with.
But I could get it wrong. Perhaps there's some major trauma. Hate to say the words but recognize rape, sickness and death are too much to compare. Perhaps I being a insensible here. That is why I insist in you to speak. At the same time, what right do I have to know about you? Why should you tell me anything? After all, I haven't done anything for you nor presents any promise or potential.
Some days ago, a post made me think, doesn't matter what it said. I haven't done anything for anyone but myself. Not for absolute psychopathy, but for lack of intention, lack of life even. I haven't hurt anyone either, not seriously. Well, lets get childhood and parent issues out of the list, that is another talk. No, I think you know what I'm talking about. Help, love, betrayal, that stuff.
For ages I got so consumed by my professional goals that I neglected entirely other parts of my life. Nowadays I could understand your story, but couldn't empathize, couldn't feel ya. It's just that. I'd love to, I really do, but I can't. As weird as it sounds, I feel like a piece of coal got stuck at my chest and listening to you emphasizes its blackness and weightlessness.
And this letter, more a confession than a dialog, I wrote knowing that you have lived and I have not.
Go, you are so far from me now. Hope you find a way to make peace with life. And hope life lead us back to another café, there in the future, to talk, smile and be.
Best wishes, and I meant it
