I'm not sure how to start this, though I suppose that is understandable considering I've never done this before... and hopefully I will never have to again. I guess I'll start with "I'm sorry", and I truly am.
Virgil, I'm sorry.
Patton, I'm sorry.
Logan, I'm sorry.
... I am sorry.
But the world was trying to kill me, it has always been trying to kill me. At first it was by stealing my voice, by having me be talked over again and again and again, by making me scream only to be ignored. But then it became much more literal. It became the clawing voices in my head, the harsh shadows in my mind and he sea of happiness I was unable to baptize myself in. It was the way my body was an apartment and depression was my roommate that just made you uncomfortable, it is an apartment surrounded by infinite possibilities mere steps away yet for some reason I could not leave my front door.
It was an apartment I was afraid to go back to, a silence that nothing could fill.
But you manage it, you somehow quietened the silence and distracted my mind enough to lead me from my house and because of that I love you. And I guess I'm sorry for that too, you shouldn't have to find out how I feel through a letter.
But my brain was not my own, my head was not mine and I did not pay rent to the apartment of my being. Depression wanted me to move out, to leave my apartment with no bags and yet I never want to leave my bed. I am part of a view, a collection of things that people barely stop to consider before moving on and forgetting - and people... they say that is a privilege but I could hardly afford the apartment of my body and I was crumbling before them.
He wants me gone, he wants me gone, he wants me gone. I can tell, by the pictures of us - smiling and happy - that he tares down, by the wallpaper he peels and the way he keeps me up at night. He wants me to move out, and sometimes I do to.
I didn't know if there was a difference.
Love, Roman. Xx
