Two Letters

In the interest of posting something here are two of my recent letters demonstrating how completely bi-polar I’ve become in my isolation up here. Notice that they are only hours apart. Though this is nothing new. Comments more then appreciated.

6/10/2007 Jeff Forshée
“The Dark Broadcaster.”

I never feel like walking around at night here. I always used to back home. Why am I such a failure as a person? Other people can get along to some degree. From the vary begging though I’ve only been kin to people who turn to drugs, who are just generally unknowable, who are cold, or who (in my mind) have committed acts of horrible violence. The few I’m left with are not enough though I am truly thankful. . . For both of you. . . The night sky seems to hold only sorrow for me. . . Maybe it would be different if it weren’t framed by my window. I won’t find out for awhile its hard to drag myself out side. . . No one interests me out here, they seem hollow. . . Maybe I make them hollow. They don’t seem to think like me. I’m sick of always being the only one of me in a room and I wish this didn’t cause me to think I’m better then these people. How many words do you speak a day? You know I said something to the TV today and then felt horribly depressed. . . It was the third best conversation I would have that day. If it weren’t for Brittany I wouldn’t speak at all. I might through my voice out giving a four minuet speech next week. Even the few people remind me of people I’ve already failed with. I’m not even sure I’ll leave the apartment this weekend. I miss real summers until I think about how it was never really all that much better. People always left me alone never asked me to do anything. . . But I guess that’s my fault. Everything I learned I learned too late. Catholics have it easy you know? I’ve been stumbling around for years and haven’t found anyone new to confess to. If I come down will you have time for me? Or will we push things off like always? God I miss the discovery and the night. Up here all the alternative seem worse then the loneliness I have now. I can’t even cry up here. What’s the point. My emotion has no affect on anyone up here. . . I’m just broadcasting into the darkness. . . As I was born to do. . .

Miserably yours,
The Dark Broadcaster.

6/10/2007 Jeff Forshée
“Someone is receiving.”

Dearest brother,
Someone is receiving. Even when we think we are playing to the night sky, broadcasting into the darkness, someone is receiving. What a glorious revelation, dearest brother. My frequency is much higher here. The highs and lows move quickly. Here I do not dwell, even if I am grief-stricken and joyous in turn I dwell on neither. Maybe some day I will learn to be so perfectly alone, but when I see you next we should raise a glass and hope that skill will be of little use. And raise another to our silent brothers and sisters, both known and unknown, whom we wait for and whom we hope for. Know that someone is receiving, dearest brother. All this force of hope has to go somewhere. Last night I was crushed. My morbid fantasies got the best of me. In my mind I had lost her. . . She was gone. I saw my self at her funeral, dearest brother. I asked “Do you even know who you lost?” not understanding why the world hadn’t stopped. I cried last night in a fit of psychosomatic sorrow. I felt all 150 square feet of my apartment close in on me. I didn’t know what to do I couldn’t weep and I was still unhinged by this imagined grief. At one thirty in the morning I stared at the ceiling with that pain you get in your chest when you cant quite cry and the phone rang. It was her. She couldn’t sleep. Life is the greatest parable, dearest brother. I heard her voice and for a moment night was night again. I talked to her and the sound of each other made us both feel at ease. Even alone as I am, in this plastic night, someone is receiving.

Your brother,
Who Sees Perfection In Coincidence.