A schizophrenic writes an impressionistic letter to an imaginary woman in a moment of lucidity

Bear with me on the experimental stuff, guys.

It’s too late. If you’re reading this, neither of us will find someone. I’m asking myself what you’ve been doing for 15 or 20 years. How a person could wait this long.

Oh, you worked and went out. Made yourself a priority. Now you want to bend time backwards. You want the time when you should’ve fallen in love. 

Well, yes, we’re animals… But culture tames us. We have to keep that energy bottled up, tightly contained and controlled. 

Otherwise it’s a directionless mess. Spiritual dissipation. It’s waking up at 40 not knowing who you are.

It’s all those free choices. They were lived like obligations. I was the same. I cared about what I wanted. And always in the moment. What’s tomorrow? Just a belief. I’m a skeptic, so I don’t believe in anything outside the raw reality of my senses. God? Doesn’t feel real. Nothing exists for sure until I feel it. 

It’s dawning on me now how funny that is. How a person lives with an idea of himself. I thought I was a skeptic while I lived like a sensualist. 

I was intelligent because I mocked tradition. Saw normal patterns of social life as irrational and limiting. For me, people wanted to belong out of weakness. And belonging made them weaker.

But thinking like that shrinks your soul. That’s what I’m learning. Before you know it you’re writing articles for libertarian magazines and eating lavish, solitary dinners in hotel restaurants.

The path I’ve been on is twisting into a dead end.  I’ve nothing to give but what I want. And I gave the best of myself to nothing.

We’re doing this because the threads of society are in tatters. We live as individuals in terror and ignorance. I’m telling you, we waited too long for this to make sense.

I could write for the rest of my life and not say all the different ways I want to say this one thing: that time and place matter, when and where something happens is the key to its happening.

Author: The Empty Subject

Born curmudgeon

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