Alteration: A letter
I no longer write to you. It was easier to do so when it seemed you weren’t listening. Unbeknownst to me, you were absorbed everything I said. From secret electric impulses running from my keyboard to yours and up your fingers to your neural receptors, my words became yours.
...Happiness is described thus: “cocaine unicorns.” Does that speak to you? It’s fantasy and grit and falsity and truth. I used to walk miles home after such sordid affairs and my bloodshot eyes would search out the moon amidst the frenetic skyline. I repeated a metaphor to myself like a chant whereupon you were that moon and the moon was not there though I knew it was, but how I kept looking!
...Is it a sign of addiction to wish that your higher faculties be drenched soggy in a pool of chemical romance? Noxious liquid like semen entering a vagina, acid like battery fluid wreaks disturbance as it encounters fleshy folds. Hallucinogenic gold, chocolate euphoria.
...A frequent image has come to mind since childhood. It’s a gun barrel dispersing a fine gray powder into the air surrounding my head as its metallic cone lodges itself well into my brain. What is it about the brain that begs for such abuse?
I’m getting away from the point of this letter and it comforts me that I can finally do that, though. I’ve spent too much time thinking about your motivations, your wishes and wants. I just want you to know that I don’t know where this is going, but you are someone who has altered me more than any other… for me, that is love.
You've made me someone else. You've altered me. I never used to fear purposelessness. In fact, I typically thrive in it. You turn everything upside down. But I’m starting to feel like my old self again. Don’t know if that’s good or bad, but it feels damn good.
...Happiness is described thus: “cocaine unicorns.” Does that speak to you? It’s fantasy and grit and falsity and truth. I used to walk miles home after such sordid affairs and my bloodshot eyes would search out the moon amidst the frenetic skyline. I repeated a metaphor to myself like a chant whereupon you were that moon and the moon was not there though I knew it was, but how I kept looking!
...Is it a sign of addiction to wish that your higher faculties be drenched soggy in a pool of chemical romance? Noxious liquid like semen entering a vagina, acid like battery fluid wreaks disturbance as it encounters fleshy folds. Hallucinogenic gold, chocolate euphoria.
...A frequent image has come to mind since childhood. It’s a gun barrel dispersing a fine gray powder into the air surrounding my head as its metallic cone lodges itself well into my brain. What is it about the brain that begs for such abuse?
I’m getting away from the point of this letter and it comforts me that I can finally do that, though. I’ve spent too much time thinking about your motivations, your wishes and wants. I just want you to know that I don’t know where this is going, but you are someone who has altered me more than any other… for me, that is love.
You've made me someone else. You've altered me. I never used to fear purposelessness. In fact, I typically thrive in it. You turn everything upside down. But I’m starting to feel like my old self again. Don’t know if that’s good or bad, but it feels damn good.
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