a letter from sarah

Dearest William,

I hope this letter finds you, and if it does, I hope you are well.

I'm writing you in a time of need. I wish this weren't the case. Why are we compelled to seek out the friendly faces from our past during moments of distress? Perhaps we long for something familiar . . . a desire to relive an invulnerable moment in time and hide there, take refuge in that sacred memory . . . a snapshot from the past. But unlike photographs, people change, such is the pull of time, and we never find what we are searching for in those faces. We collect scars. And the scars metamorphose us. Eyes change. Personalities transform. It's the pain that changes us. Not the contentment. Not the joy.

I hope the weight of time hasn't significantly changed you, William.

As for me . . .

My head is a hive of wild bees that refuses to settle. Their plastic wings flutter and flap, and my brain flashes like Xmas lights. A man dressed in white -- he smelled like a dentist's office -- prescribed me some medications to address the thoughts (and actions) that landed me in the hospital. He said that the meds and therapy would make me happy. Normal. Like everyone else.

(Little did he or those Nazi nurses know, I never took a single dose of their fucking medication.)

Because of my "positive attitude" and "eagerness to participate in group activities," I accumulated enough "points" to leave the hospital every other day. Yesterday I visited an old friend who lives downtown. I took the bus, and as I stared out the window, everyone looked like actors. Costumes and scripted lines. Stage directions and a well-lit set complete with authentic props.

I got off at Michigan and Tenth and joined the afternoon bedlam. The people, the actors were everywhere. The smell of cotton candy and the distant sound of music wafted over the lunchtime chaos. The carnival must be in town, I thought. But the carnies and Ferris wheels don't come here. Not anymore.

A well-dressed man reciting biblical passages stood at a street corner. He spoke of the Antichrist. Serpents and seven seals. Sinners drowning in a sea of flames. He was waging a holy battle against the forsaken. His weapon was his words. His shield, a weathered bible. A gold-plated cross swung violently around his neck as he pointed east, west, north and south. He fervently condemned the transgressors of god's word -- and the trespassers were everywhere. Stoplights turned red, yellow, green. Turn signals flashed left, right. ". . . So avoid hell and repent today!"

A businessman squawked indiscernible orders into a cell phone. With a look of contempt carved into his clean-shaven face, he waded through the crowded sidewalk. His hair was perfect. Fingernails clipped and clean. An immaculately pressed business suit was his uniform -- a symbol of status. Leather wingtips and a leather briefcase -- survival of the fittest. He was a general commanding troops and dollar signs, fighting to maintain his financial position. ". . . He'll have hell to pay if he doesn't close that fucking deal!"

Two denim-clad teenage lovers passionately embraced in front of a vacant office space. Her arms were folded over his neck. His blind hands scoured her body, searching (quick and fast) for the simple sensation of contact. Their lips were one: an organic device exchanging passion, love, the ineffable force of the cosmos. Car horns screamed. Street vendors shuffled. Pedestrians passed. The teenage lovers' obliviousness was holy and profound. They were battling against an unstoppable force: time. ". . . Wish we could stay here . . . forever."

I got lost among the actors and before I knew it, my two hours of freedom had expired. I was supposed to catch the 42 bus back to the hospital, but I decided not to return. (I walked to Richard's, that old friend I mentioned earlier, and this is where I'm writing this letter.)

I learned something from watching the preacher man, the businessman and the two lovers: we're all fighting, battling against something greater than us . . . an objective none of us will achieve. We fight others. We fight time. We fight faceless forces that lack meaning and therefore do not exist. And, as is my case, we fight ourselves. All of us are engaged in an unending battle. So how am I different from everyone else? Why should I be institutionalized and fed medications? And contrary to what that psychiatrist said, there is no happiness. No sadness. No normalcy. Just the act of existence and the experience of collecting memories.

I haven't forgotten you, William. Maybe someday we'll see each other again . . . someday soon, I hope. Despite the passage of time, I can still taste you. Feel you. Smell you. The psychiatrist and therapists told me to forget you, move on, build a new foundation and start anew. I tried. I tried to erase you. But some things, some people can't be erased, regardless of your attempts.

And maybe you shouldn't erase the snapshots of your past. Our history is our life. We don't live in the future. And we don't live in the present because the moment is always escaping, slipping though our fingers. Our history is our life. This is why we keep journals, diaries, home movies, souvenirs and photographs. These things remind us of who and what we are. This is why grave markers bear our name and lifespan -- to remind others of who and what we were. We are products of our past; our past is a product of our existence. It's this symbiotic relationship that makes us human.

Some people touch you. Kiss you. Or simply look at you. And it's over. That person becomes an intangible memento in your mind. A forever floating particle of your past.

A scar.

A blemish.

A mark you will cherish until your memory evanesces and your existence evaporates.

Forever Yours,

Sarah

XOXO


xx