It seems like so long since I’ve written you, even though it’s only been a few days. But don’t get me wrong, mate, it isn’t you I miss: in fact, I don’t miss you at all. It’s just that I’ve been finding these letters rather therapeutic in a strange sort of way.
There was a time when I couldn’t go a day without seeing you. Do you remember? At first, the time in between our dates was all excitement and giddy nervousness: I would think about how much fun the last time was and about how much fun the next time would undoubtedly be. Later on, that time in between dalliances would become sheer torture: I needed you that moment, and when I didn’t have you, it was painful. You were the great escape, and I the chronic escapist, for reality was far too grievous, far too real. I needed you every single second of every single day no matter what the consequences because the alternative was much, much too frightening.
And then, even further down the line, towards the end of our association, things changed once again. Those times in between our degenerate dancing became lulls in the storm, so to speak. I was like a sailor adrift at sea coming out of one tempest and trying to pull myself together as much as possible, even though at my core I knew that the next one was inevitably coming and that it would probably be just as bad as (if not worse than) the last one. I’d cling to those brief reprieves and pray to gods I didn’t even believe in (not you because I always believed in you) to spare me my awful fate. But the gods were deaf and fate was cruel and I was a poor, poor sailor, Dionysus.