Jason,
Yeah. Your real name finally. And this time, no more pretensions. All clear. A blue sky with the setting sun at the foreground.
This will be my last letter. This will be the end of a search, a search for things I know I could never obtain. For I already have it. Yeah, just one.
I am sorry for using your other name, Vince. For dragging you in this lie.
I have to accept it. I haven't still. That I am just better off as you've left me. Or perhaps, that I have written a handful of letters already.
I know this makes no sense at all. But it does not have to. For nobody would know. So it would not fit to say goodbye. Instead, it should be: wake up.
K*****
Tuesday, December 25, 2012
Thursday, December 13, 2012
Ideal
V,
Thinks have taken a twist the past few days. When I thought I was freely writing, I was mistaken. Writing to you started becoming shaping an ideal, an ideal image of myself I want to feed you with. Ideal. Perfect.
I have long been marred, and I have long wanted to cover that. I was ashamed of it, of the err and the imperfection. And I was a coward not to admit so. Instead, I am still living in my fantasy world of masks and surrealism. Blind ideals, misguided principles, wrong intentions.
There is this tug of war within. I could not easily give up this want to strive for perfection. But it is day after more and more seemingly impossible.
Do I still write for you? Or do I write just to give myself a sense of security? Are we on similar ground, or am I making our floor muddy and covering it with blood?
What am I trying to say? I am weak Vince. I am not perfect. And I act otherwise, and I impose that ideal on others. Hoping they would see the veil, that they would figure it out.
Maybe you already did. That I think ideally. Maybe you do not.
Will anyone ever will? Would anyone ever have, unless I said so?
But I will have to go on with life, hoping that tomorrow would be better. Always hoping. Always idealizing. Always. Perhaps.
Thinks have taken a twist the past few days. When I thought I was freely writing, I was mistaken. Writing to you started becoming shaping an ideal, an ideal image of myself I want to feed you with. Ideal. Perfect.
I have long been marred, and I have long wanted to cover that. I was ashamed of it, of the err and the imperfection. And I was a coward not to admit so. Instead, I am still living in my fantasy world of masks and surrealism. Blind ideals, misguided principles, wrong intentions.
There is this tug of war within. I could not easily give up this want to strive for perfection. But it is day after more and more seemingly impossible.
Do I still write for you? Or do I write just to give myself a sense of security? Are we on similar ground, or am I making our floor muddy and covering it with blood?
What am I trying to say? I am weak Vince. I am not perfect. And I act otherwise, and I impose that ideal on others. Hoping they would see the veil, that they would figure it out.
Maybe you already did. That I think ideally. Maybe you do not.
Will anyone ever will? Would anyone ever have, unless I said so?
But I will have to go on with life, hoping that tomorrow would be better. Always hoping. Always idealizing. Always. Perhaps.
Thursday, December 6, 2012
Self
V,
Should I be ashamed of who I am? Should I hide my identity? Should I try fitting, or should I allow room for them to adjust? Or perhaps I should be the one to?
I have been hiding myself in words and arguments. For the last two weeks, I have tried expounding about impersonal things, trying to give an identity and face to the one writing to the letters.
In reality, I want to be treated the same Vince. The same way I am treating you. Being checked upon, not exactly always, but time and again. Having someone to talk to, not only when I need help, or when he needs my help, but even when things are not ok or just fine and normal.
I know you have figured that out, and I do not think you have reacted to that. Not that I am telling you to quickly give one, as I've figured you would not easily do or any request one would ask from you. But it is actually helping for me to speak these things out, as I do not usually do that. People say that is unhealthy.
They actually say a lot of things. And I am prone to be affected by them, called to act accordingly.
Why have I written this one? I just could not help but tell all these things, to keep on keeping them. And again, I hope you will reply.
There is only one thing I do not like about doing so -- it is when people tend to act as expected, leaving me confused whether they do so out of free will or influenced mostly (if not wholly) by me saying so.
Thus, I am left to accepting either the possibility of being continually checked out of a sense of duty, or of things proceeding better than expected. It is easier to accept the first, although the latter I prefer. And I dare not put philosophy towards the end of this.
I want to earn a reply.
Should I be ashamed of who I am? Should I hide my identity? Should I try fitting, or should I allow room for them to adjust? Or perhaps I should be the one to?
I have been hiding myself in words and arguments. For the last two weeks, I have tried expounding about impersonal things, trying to give an identity and face to the one writing to the letters.
In reality, I want to be treated the same Vince. The same way I am treating you. Being checked upon, not exactly always, but time and again. Having someone to talk to, not only when I need help, or when he needs my help, but even when things are not ok or just fine and normal.
I know you have figured that out, and I do not think you have reacted to that. Not that I am telling you to quickly give one, as I've figured you would not easily do or any request one would ask from you. But it is actually helping for me to speak these things out, as I do not usually do that. People say that is unhealthy.
They actually say a lot of things. And I am prone to be affected by them, called to act accordingly.
Why have I written this one? I just could not help but tell all these things, to keep on keeping them. And again, I hope you will reply.
There is only one thing I do not like about doing so -- it is when people tend to act as expected, leaving me confused whether they do so out of free will or influenced mostly (if not wholly) by me saying so.
Thus, I am left to accepting either the possibility of being continually checked out of a sense of duty, or of things proceeding better than expected. It is easier to accept the first, although the latter I prefer. And I dare not put philosophy towards the end of this.
I want to earn a reply.
Wednesday, December 5, 2012
v Touche
We live in an imperfect world, marred by injustice and violence, plagued by corrupted minds and ill will.
I have a lot of space and time to write and prove that statement, but reading from your letters I am sure you would agree. Besides, I am following your line of thought and writing style now - of which, by the way, I am becoming used to and prompted my reply.
We live in an imperfect world, but it does not give us the right and freedom to act as if we are perfect in all that we do, that we always do the right thing. We still have to think about our actions, be responsible with them. And perhaps, we make this world we live in less imperfect than it would have been.
--
I am supposed to portray an untouchable character here. I am supposed to just argue all your points away. I perceive that setup would help a lot. But you do not need another person making sublimes and codes for you to think and decode, so I might as well not be one. And I might as well be someone you can reach, you can read. Although I also know you would like some game.
I have already answered most of your questions. Those five sentences, that one paragraph, would have sold me. I trust your skills to determine. We are, after all, connected by this sense of mystery and hidden between-the-line messages.
And you are not as easy to read. And that is positive Jason, a compliment actually. Although I can not help to figure things out, as you have specially arranged with your style.
Let's continue this game, and see how far we can play. That is not a challenge, for you are not fond of them. But I argue, is this the game you wanted to play? Have you thought I'd fall in this trap easily? Of course not, as you have already figured out.
Thus, I am willing to play. Do not read between the lines bro. Dance with the rhythm.
I have a lot of space and time to write and prove that statement, but reading from your letters I am sure you would agree. Besides, I am following your line of thought and writing style now - of which, by the way, I am becoming used to and prompted my reply.
We live in an imperfect world, but it does not give us the right and freedom to act as if we are perfect in all that we do, that we always do the right thing. We still have to think about our actions, be responsible with them. And perhaps, we make this world we live in less imperfect than it would have been.
--
I am supposed to portray an untouchable character here. I am supposed to just argue all your points away. I perceive that setup would help a lot. But you do not need another person making sublimes and codes for you to think and decode, so I might as well not be one. And I might as well be someone you can reach, you can read. Although I also know you would like some game.
I have already answered most of your questions. Those five sentences, that one paragraph, would have sold me. I trust your skills to determine. We are, after all, connected by this sense of mystery and hidden between-the-line messages.
And you are not as easy to read. And that is positive Jason, a compliment actually. Although I can not help to figure things out, as you have specially arranged with your style.
Let's continue this game, and see how far we can play. That is not a challenge, for you are not fond of them. But I argue, is this the game you wanted to play? Have you thought I'd fall in this trap easily? Of course not, as you have already figured out.
Thus, I am willing to play. Do not read between the lines bro. Dance with the rhythm.
Tuesday, December 4, 2012
Simple
V,
This had been a rather unusual past time of mine. Writing you letters, arguing on some issues connected with the message I want to tell you, be philosophical and reflect on the things that are happening, those that will be, and more importantly of things that have been.
But this time, I have had enough of the sublime messages and codes encrypted between the lines, the punctuation, and the pauses I would have done if I were speaking instead of writing.
Lonely. The past days have been rather lonely Vince. Nobody else is around to hang out with, no one to talk with and converse with and be philosophical with (forgive me for using the term again, but as mentioned I will be keeping this one simple and to the point). And counting this one, it will be 4 letters still without your reply, although I am sure I have dared you to do so on my last one. But again, it just ain't the same without you around. I've been got used to. K. The simplicity is killing me. I am bored. Next adjective.
Blank. Although I feel lonely, I more than that feel blank. Mostly. Why? Well, it is hard to juggle different stuff. You will understand where that is coming from. The irony of the views, of the situations. I am left to a point where feeling either alone is just unacceptable (or at least I deem so). So I am left with the emotion of nothingness. I have to do away with being neutral, in the middle. And it is where I am supposed to have ground, but it is the opposite. I feel floating and falling indefinitely at the same time.
Used to it. This will be the last adjective I'll expound. I would have used the term 'supposed to be' but it is not actually an adjective, although 'used to it' doesn't seem to be one as well. But the latter seems more neutral than the other. More active, more present and now. Perhaps you have to really go away, perhaps I just have to be alone, maybe I have to get used to this. To such a setup. And likely, not only on a short term or on some occasions, but on a more general and all-inclusive note.
I can't believe I've managed to be as flat and straight-forward as that. Maybe I do make some things complicated. Or do I? And although now's a good time to turn things around and make it sound like you haven't understood a thing about what I've said, or that all the words before this do not matter. Although I am tempted to change course and make everything go in all directions, I stop. I stop to ask, What is simple? What is complex? Is there a difference?
Come to think of it, is the message really simple? Or is it complicated enough that the words above haven't explained it at all? I do not challenge you. I invite you. Think.
This had been a rather unusual past time of mine. Writing you letters, arguing on some issues connected with the message I want to tell you, be philosophical and reflect on the things that are happening, those that will be, and more importantly of things that have been.
But this time, I have had enough of the sublime messages and codes encrypted between the lines, the punctuation, and the pauses I would have done if I were speaking instead of writing.
Lonely. The past days have been rather lonely Vince. Nobody else is around to hang out with, no one to talk with and converse with and be philosophical with (forgive me for using the term again, but as mentioned I will be keeping this one simple and to the point). And counting this one, it will be 4 letters still without your reply, although I am sure I have dared you to do so on my last one. But again, it just ain't the same without you around. I've been got used to. K. The simplicity is killing me. I am bored. Next adjective.
Blank. Although I feel lonely, I more than that feel blank. Mostly. Why? Well, it is hard to juggle different stuff. You will understand where that is coming from. The irony of the views, of the situations. I am left to a point where feeling either alone is just unacceptable (or at least I deem so). So I am left with the emotion of nothingness. I have to do away with being neutral, in the middle. And it is where I am supposed to have ground, but it is the opposite. I feel floating and falling indefinitely at the same time.
Used to it. This will be the last adjective I'll expound. I would have used the term 'supposed to be' but it is not actually an adjective, although 'used to it' doesn't seem to be one as well. But the latter seems more neutral than the other. More active, more present and now. Perhaps you have to really go away, perhaps I just have to be alone, maybe I have to get used to this. To such a setup. And likely, not only on a short term or on some occasions, but on a more general and all-inclusive note.
I can't believe I've managed to be as flat and straight-forward as that. Maybe I do make some things complicated. Or do I? And although now's a good time to turn things around and make it sound like you haven't understood a thing about what I've said, or that all the words before this do not matter. Although I am tempted to change course and make everything go in all directions, I stop. I stop to ask, What is simple? What is complex? Is there a difference?
Come to think of it, is the message really simple? Or is it complicated enough that the words above haven't explained it at all? I do not challenge you. I invite you. Think.
Monday, December 3, 2012
Impression
V,
I've figured you let someone else read these letters I give you, and again I figure that would eventually happen. Although, I expected sooner. Perhaps, I irritated more quickly than I have imagined.
What was his impression about them? Btw, he has emailed me about them. And no, you would not know about that conversation. At least not from my side.
Let me retrace a few steps. And by a few, I will exaggerate. My first impression about you somehow still applies: you are someone mysterious, and serious, and difficult to gauge. And although I've known many things about you, I figure I still know a little. And I haven't known you enough, perhaps not in my level of enough. That would take another letter to explain (so you might as well wait for that one).
Impressions. Why am I again writing? And why am I still, if I know others are able to read? Does that even matter? Does it now affect the way I write?
Well, whoever you will be whom Vince would permit to read these, it actually excites me to know so. That another person will be reading my thoughts. That another clueless individual would take a peek at what I call my deep well. Of vague generalizations, of specific simplicity. Of abstract and reality. Of details and what-have-you random things. But no, your reading this would not affect the way and things I'd write. Only one thing so far did: the Platonic 'reply' I got from him.
I may have been releasing an impression that I am equally mysterious as he is, that I am readable to those I deem to be able read me. That I have an impenetrable defense. And that impression I drop.
I am what I think I am, and it is most likely different with what you think of me. And that I speak to the random stranger and Vince, though that would mean differently. In the same way, I may consider you in a manner altogether unique with your own disposition of yourself.
Is it now a battle of impressions? And wit? I dismiss that as well. Go figure. But this I tell, double-sided. Either you are able to figure it out or are altogether confused. But impress me, and I challenge you. Reply.
I've figured you let someone else read these letters I give you, and again I figure that would eventually happen. Although, I expected sooner. Perhaps, I irritated more quickly than I have imagined.
What was his impression about them? Btw, he has emailed me about them. And no, you would not know about that conversation. At least not from my side.
Let me retrace a few steps. And by a few, I will exaggerate. My first impression about you somehow still applies: you are someone mysterious, and serious, and difficult to gauge. And although I've known many things about you, I figure I still know a little. And I haven't known you enough, perhaps not in my level of enough. That would take another letter to explain (so you might as well wait for that one).
Impressions. Why am I again writing? And why am I still, if I know others are able to read? Does that even matter? Does it now affect the way I write?
Well, whoever you will be whom Vince would permit to read these, it actually excites me to know so. That another person will be reading my thoughts. That another clueless individual would take a peek at what I call my deep well. Of vague generalizations, of specific simplicity. Of abstract and reality. Of details and what-have-you random things. But no, your reading this would not affect the way and things I'd write. Only one thing so far did: the Platonic 'reply' I got from him.
I may have been releasing an impression that I am equally mysterious as he is, that I am readable to those I deem to be able read me. That I have an impenetrable defense. And that impression I drop.
I am what I think I am, and it is most likely different with what you think of me. And that I speak to the random stranger and Vince, though that would mean differently. In the same way, I may consider you in a manner altogether unique with your own disposition of yourself.
Is it now a battle of impressions? And wit? I dismiss that as well. Go figure. But this I tell, double-sided. Either you are able to figure it out or are altogether confused. But impress me, and I challenge you. Reply.
Sunday, December 2, 2012
Almost
V,
This last one took a lot of time (well compared with the first three) before being written. Before I am writing once again. Which brings me to my point: why have I not written another shortly, and why write now?
There are actually a lot of reasons why I am writing. And a lot of views I could think of. Also, a thousand ways to express each of them. And I am near the point of forgetting, of drowning in these countless ideas and statements on my head. So I might as well get started. And fast.
Why is it that when I decide to let go of the seemingly impossible, when I do the hardest of them all (well, the presently hardest), things suddenly change and fall out of hand. Either I am totally convinced that my choice is now irrelevant and irrational, or I am totally sold with thinking how to react at the sudden change of things first. Things are nearing their balance. Things are almost in control. Then, they go out of control.
Like, when I was gonna tell you something serious and of utmost importance, you just moved in the middle of nowhere. When I was supposed to repress and wear a mask, the idea of writing you letters instead came up. And when I was about to write straight from the point, following my own advice from my last letter, things just become pointless, so there's no point to go from, or to go to. Just like that. Just in instant, things change. Things get pretty out of hand. As if they are playing a game on me.
Why now? Why ever? Why not this? Why not sooner?
I know I haven't really told anything personal, or different, or serious, or straight from our conversations and my letter. Ever. I just haven't. And right now, I feel like slipping one out. I actually, as I've mentioned, planned to focus on saying something actual here. But typical of me, I haven't mentioned a thing.
As has been, I've always almost said a thing. Then I took it to another direction, and it's impossible to ever come back to the point of reversing that almost.
Why am I ever writing letters? Why am I not being rather direct? Why am I voicing out my thoughts out loud (in ink, or what have you) here?
I could have slipped a couple of times here, actually. As you may have noticed, I keep coming to a point of climax, of bursting it out, but then I take it back.
Maybe, I am playing a game. And perhaps, life is playing one on me, too. We're equals, thus you can say. We're playing the same game, suffering and enjoying the same results. Equal? Almost.
Because when you expect the most, we just take you to a point where you want more.
This last one took a lot of time (well compared with the first three) before being written. Before I am writing once again. Which brings me to my point: why have I not written another shortly, and why write now?
There are actually a lot of reasons why I am writing. And a lot of views I could think of. Also, a thousand ways to express each of them. And I am near the point of forgetting, of drowning in these countless ideas and statements on my head. So I might as well get started. And fast.
Why is it that when I decide to let go of the seemingly impossible, when I do the hardest of them all (well, the presently hardest), things suddenly change and fall out of hand. Either I am totally convinced that my choice is now irrelevant and irrational, or I am totally sold with thinking how to react at the sudden change of things first. Things are nearing their balance. Things are almost in control. Then, they go out of control.
Like, when I was gonna tell you something serious and of utmost importance, you just moved in the middle of nowhere. When I was supposed to repress and wear a mask, the idea of writing you letters instead came up. And when I was about to write straight from the point, following my own advice from my last letter, things just become pointless, so there's no point to go from, or to go to. Just like that. Just in instant, things change. Things get pretty out of hand. As if they are playing a game on me.
Why now? Why ever? Why not this? Why not sooner?
I know I haven't really told anything personal, or different, or serious, or straight from our conversations and my letter. Ever. I just haven't. And right now, I feel like slipping one out. I actually, as I've mentioned, planned to focus on saying something actual here. But typical of me, I haven't mentioned a thing.
As has been, I've always almost said a thing. Then I took it to another direction, and it's impossible to ever come back to the point of reversing that almost.
Why am I ever writing letters? Why am I not being rather direct? Why am I voicing out my thoughts out loud (in ink, or what have you) here?
I could have slipped a couple of times here, actually. As you may have noticed, I keep coming to a point of climax, of bursting it out, but then I take it back.
Maybe, I am playing a game. And perhaps, life is playing one on me, too. We're equals, thus you can say. We're playing the same game, suffering and enjoying the same results. Equal? Almost.
Because when you expect the most, we just take you to a point where you want more.
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