Hamartia

First

Dear Someone Who I Wish I Could Call 'My Phil',

Has anything ever come as such a big shock to you you're sure it's set you back at least ten years, maybe even more? I would say it's something that makes you feel so much younger, but then again, maybe young is not quite the right feeling. Innocent isn't either; the word I'm looking for is naive. I can only liken this feeling to the naivety of a child, running about the world without any sort of care or understanding and listening to songs that you enjoy just for the melody. Compare that to suddenly waking up and realising your favourite tunes from years ago are all about sex, drugs and heartbreak. It comes as a shock and you cringe and part of you feels like it's died a little, perhaps a veil has been uncovered that was probably better left where it was.

Have you ever had a shock so desperate you just don't know how to even begin to cope, no, before that; before you can cope you must first understand but when the rules of the Universe seemed to have been changed at the conference you weren't invited to, it's impossible to understand what is going on now. Without understanding there's almost no hope. You simply can't carry on.

Since you left I'm sure I've just been sat on this sofa for days. The same spot. Unmoving. My gaze unwavering on the hole I'm sure I'm staring through the plaster of the wall. The house is so, so silent but my mind is screaming. It both feels like I'm thinking every single thought in all of human history, all at once, god, the noise is unbearable, but somehow I'm also thinking nothing at all. Or in other words: I couldn't tell you what the hell I've been thinking this whole time. As I said, state of shock.

Thinking is too hard anyway, because thinking means remembering details and processing them and that's exactly what I'd like to avoid right now because that's just a little too raw and painful considering it's still all so fresh in my mind. It's like I'm reliving and reliving and reliving the same moment all over again, possibly for the rest of eternity, and if I stop and think about it too much I'm scared I'll only come to the conclusion that it's my–

I've been sitting here, trying not to think about it. I don't want these thoughts in my head because they're too loud, yet they demand to be heard and I don't want to listen and this battle went on for a while until it felt like my head was about to explode. Oh my god, I was sure I was about to burst, Phil. (Is that how you felt?) I looked down, however, and I saw this pad of paper on the coffee table. Conveniently a pen placed alongside it, sorta like fate if I was stupid enough to believe that exists but who knows anymore. Point is, now I'm writing you this letter because you're the cause of my pain and I feel it's appropriate that pain's explanation be addressed to you.

That's not really fair to say though, is it?

Writing helps me in any case, no matter who the supposed recipient of this bullshit would be. If my thoughts are on paper it's because they're coming out of my head, which is exactly where I don't want them, so I write them all down on this blank piece of A5 because the paper makes them real and it means I can hand all these thoughts over to someone who isn't you to read and suddenly it can all become their problem. Not mine any longer. Does pain really half when you share it with another person? Ironic I'm only suggesting this theory now when it's too late for either of us to test, an experiment that should have happened long ago.

Oh my god, Phil, why aren't you with me? Tell me what I did wrong, dammit! You can't though, because me realising it all now is too little, too late, right?

Now you'll never know my pain and suffering but you wouldn't have wanted to anyway because I guess you had your own. That's why you're gone.

Sincerely (god, too formal, just how do I sign off a letter like this?) Fuck it, I love you, now why couldn't I just have said it sooner?

Dan