Letter To A Friend

[souldecay]

5.26pm25/11/04

I took one slice of pleasured pain from the blunt blade of the kitchen knife with a wrath so exquisite and so sentimentally … delicate, it tasted better than a fine dining experience.

I saw the skin tear exposing the weak white flesh inside slowly and elegantly turning to red thinking...

How nice, how beautiful it was then when i heard that voice calling me from downstairs when we were kids – "jaaaason ...jjaaa son" and I looked down and I saw a friend and his name was Ming.

It was much simpler then.

But now we’re older and it’s a little more complicated. But all this time you never knew me. You only knew my - his-story. You never had the patience for it anyway and your ego was much too big for your eyes and all you saw was an eclipse of what was really going on.

But you always thought you knew.

You always thought you knew.

Guess you were too bottled up by your trophies huh? You wanted to be the hero, fix every damn thing so that you could get decorated for it.

You know, I never could tell you or express how I felt about you, Ming. Never! cos you would shut me up just as this god damn country where everyone is walking around with a stitched up mouth and heart and a buried soul forbidden to interfere with this pristine "utopian" programme. I have been silent all my life and I only could speak inside my mind. So I decided to live there. I’ve built a city with cinemas and streets with people n all the damn things, it’s a bloody continent now!

But the thing that I’m disappointed the most is that you never made the slightest thought of trying to understand what a borderline person is all about. Not even, picking up a book or searching the net to find out how to be my friend. So much for our 15 year friendship! Perhaps that’s why you think you know me the best. You have made a "me" of what YOU think, my friend. And I never really had a chance to be me. I had always had to be everybody my whole fucking life and I’m sick of it!

Too bad the knife was blunt...

Should have sharpen it but was to hurt by your insensitive impatient words to think of that. All I could think of was how you scolded me for being, me.

Should you not want to talk to me ever again and be my friend, it's ok.

I've found new ones.

A while later

I felt something on my left arm just 2 fingers above the tip of my cotton sleeve. It was a little wet and slightly swollen.

I used my finger to caress it reflecting upon what I did, over and over again ---------- Moments later, I looked back at my sleeve and saw thin sweet lines of rusted blood as decorated stripes like the ones given to soldiers.

I took out my T-shirt, folded it with the rusted lines facing me neatly like a ritual and offered it as offerings to the sableblack alters of my mind that had been struck hungry for a sacrilegious rite.