This has been a long time in the making. I’m sure you saw it coming; I certainly did. However, I couldn’t possibly have imagined the circumstances being so trying. I always used to figure it would be until death do us part, which I also thought would have happened already (something about twenty-seven and some other such nonsense you sold me on). But I suppose that’s beside the point.
The purpose of these letters is to try make sense of it all, to attempt to put into coherent form that which is largely incoherent. Sometimes it feels as if we were together an eternity, while others it seems merely an instant, just one sodded drunken night out that turned into a decade and resulted in one hell of a fucking hangover.
I am no apologist. I never have been, and I certainly won’t start now. That is not my intention, in regards to you or to me. And I am certainly no moralist. This is no Bildungsroman and there is no clear moral to be gained from this endeavor. This is a selfish, solitary affair, the last in a long line of many that I have undertaken, but perhaps the only one with any redeeming value. The redeeming value being, namely, my own redemption via coming to terms with our shared history.
This is not a cautionary tale. Not for me at least, and that is the only person I am concerned with at this particular moment in time. The thing about cautionary tales is you can’t apply their lessons retroactively. It’s a pity, that.
Our love overflowed with romanticization and justification and irrational rationalization, but that is all over now, so there will be no such vaudevillian exercises here.
This is not a cabaret; this is an exorcism.
Dionysus, do you think I take things too far in using that word? “Exorcism.” The eviction of spirits.
Well, we certainly do know a thing or two about spirits, don’t we, old boy?
Do you remember the first night we met? I certainly do. It was classic theater: I’d get a little taste of you, but a fleeting glimpse, just enough to know that I was truly and irrevocably mad about you, although I wouldn’t see you for years after the initial dalliance.
But oh, how I pined for you. How I fixated my every waking, youthful thought upon your seductive embrace and your escapist charm. The way I dreamed about you, held you in a somnambulant haze that only made awakening the more painful. Because, alas, you would always slip away as my eyes crawled open.
But we would meet again, wouldn’t we? And by god, how we’d make up for lost time.
I’m getting ahead of myself here. I learned that trick from you: how to get so far ahead of myself or stuck so far behind that I couldn’t even tell where I was or what I was doing most of the time. We called it the Poor Man’s Delorean, didn’t we? Because it was almost like time travel, except you couldn’t change a god damn thing in any tense: past, present, or future.
So we spent a lot of time in Limbo, you and I. It was a very strange honeymoon period, indeed.
It’s getting late now, Dionysus. Since I’ve stopped seeing you, I haven’t had the occasion to stay up all hours of the night, dancing the macabre and carrying on like a lunatic and talking to somebody who isn’t really there.
Now I get to bed at a reasonable hour and write letters to somebody who still isn’t really there.
You can be expecting further correspondence from me. Our business isn’t quite finished yet.
Sir Rateval Hurtlinge