There wouldnât be too much fuss. Worth it however much. Three whole blissful days together. Three whole even more blissful nights together. It would be like never before, wouldnât it. Say yes. On a postcard. Just the one word. Or phone. We wonât talk if you donât want to. Just say yes. Thatâs enough. All I want. We can talk when weâre together. And make love. Oh how I want to make love. I want you. Now.
This second.
I love you love you love you
3
. . . but Iâve tried to, honest. None of them was right.
Itâs all so complicated. How I feel, I mean, what Iâm thinking. The depression isnât as bad, which is one good thing. I feel better most of the time. But sometimes it all comes flooding back. Not so often though. Like a wound healing. Some days it hurts, some days it just aches, some days, more and more often, I feel OK. Maybe depression is a kind of wound. A psychic wound, a ghostly wound that haunts you till somehow itâs laid. (And not the sort of laid you mean.) Still, though, I need more time to get things sorted out in my mind.
I like it here. Itâs good for me. I like being on my own. Thatâs something Iâve learned about myself. Actually physically enjoy it. It gives me pleasure. I donât know, maybe Iâm one of those people who are best left to themselves, the sort who prefer their own company.
Not that this place is anything to write home about. Hardly even basic, in fact. Which is another reason I like it. Itâs stripped down to the essentials. Maybe I like it like this because Iâm trying to strip myself down to my own essentials. To get to know the real me. Who is the real me? I donât know. Thereâs so much garbage inside me already, so much
clutter
. And most of it dumped there by other people â parents, teachers, friends, neighbours, the telly, I donât know. Everybody. But not a lot of it put there by me.
Anyhow, what Iâm really trying to say is please donât come here. I donât mean to be nasty or anything. But itâs hard to explain. Itâs just â Iâm not ready yet. Mother wants me home for Christmas. I suppose Iâll have to. We can talk about it then.OK? What I mean is, you said letters get misunderstood. Which is true.
And the same is true about memories. I remember our first time, of course I do. But memories donât help. They can even get in the way. It seems to me that most of the time people use their memories to make their past life seem better than it was, or happier. Or just the opposite. They only remember the worst. Either way, memories arenât real. Theyâre a kind of fiction, if you ask me. Anyhow, people make them into what they want them to be, and then believe their life was like that. But I want to know what my life really was, really
is
now not then.
And yes, I enjoyed screwing you. You know that. But thatâs another of the reasons why I donât want you to come here. Weâd screw all the time and Iâd like it but it would only confuse things again. Confuse me anyway, about me and about you, and about me-and-you. Just when Iâm beginning to sort myself out.
OK, so Iâm crazy and mixed up. Thatâs what people are saying, I expect. Well, I donât care what theyâre saying. I donât have to listen to them. Not here. Which is another reason why I like this place, and being on my own, and out of range of home and everybody who knows me. Or think they do! Maybe the truth is Iâm not like they think I am. Maybe Iâm quite different. When I find out, youâll be the first to know.
So letâs leave it like that for now, yes? Till Christmas anyway.
I think about you.
He, Hi, Hippertihop
1
ââ I THINK ABOUT youâ! Honestly!â
âBut I do!â
âNot the way it means when you write it, though. Youâre being deceitful.â
âIâm only trying to be
This second.
I love you love you love you
3
. . . but Iâve tried to, honest. None of them was right.
Itâs all so complicated. How I feel, I mean, what Iâm thinking. The depression isnât as bad, which is one good thing. I feel better most of the time. But sometimes it all comes flooding back. Not so often though. Like a wound healing. Some days it hurts, some days it just aches, some days, more and more often, I feel OK. Maybe depression is a kind of wound. A psychic wound, a ghostly wound that haunts you till somehow itâs laid. (And not the sort of laid you mean.) Still, though, I need more time to get things sorted out in my mind.
I like it here. Itâs good for me. I like being on my own. Thatâs something Iâve learned about myself. Actually physically enjoy it. It gives me pleasure. I donât know, maybe Iâm one of those people who are best left to themselves, the sort who prefer their own company.
Not that this place is anything to write home about. Hardly even basic, in fact. Which is another reason I like it. Itâs stripped down to the essentials. Maybe I like it like this because Iâm trying to strip myself down to my own essentials. To get to know the real me. Who is the real me? I donât know. Thereâs so much garbage inside me already, so much
clutter
. And most of it dumped there by other people â parents, teachers, friends, neighbours, the telly, I donât know. Everybody. But not a lot of it put there by me.
Anyhow, what Iâm really trying to say is please donât come here. I donât mean to be nasty or anything. But itâs hard to explain. Itâs just â Iâm not ready yet. Mother wants me home for Christmas. I suppose Iâll have to. We can talk about it then.OK? What I mean is, you said letters get misunderstood. Which is true.
And the same is true about memories. I remember our first time, of course I do. But memories donât help. They can even get in the way. It seems to me that most of the time people use their memories to make their past life seem better than it was, or happier. Or just the opposite. They only remember the worst. Either way, memories arenât real. Theyâre a kind of fiction, if you ask me. Anyhow, people make them into what they want them to be, and then believe their life was like that. But I want to know what my life really was, really
is
now not then.
And yes, I enjoyed screwing you. You know that. But thatâs another of the reasons why I donât want you to come here. Weâd screw all the time and Iâd like it but it would only confuse things again. Confuse me anyway, about me and about you, and about me-and-you. Just when Iâm beginning to sort myself out.
OK, so Iâm crazy and mixed up. Thatâs what people are saying, I expect. Well, I donât care what theyâre saying. I donât have to listen to them. Not here. Which is another reason why I like this place, and being on my own, and out of range of home and everybody who knows me. Or think they do! Maybe the truth is Iâm not like they think I am. Maybe Iâm quite different. When I find out, youâll be the first to know.
So letâs leave it like that for now, yes? Till Christmas anyway.
I think about you.
He, Hi, Hippertihop
1
ââ I THINK ABOUT youâ! Honestly!â
âBut I do!â
âNot the way it means when you write it, though. Youâre being deceitful.â
âIâm only trying to be
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