Tuesday 24 February 2015

To Whom It May Concern:

Spent the past two weeks wondering if I should give up this letter writing business. Maybe just toss it aside and let somebody else pick up the slack. I am sure there are others who would jump at the opportunity, and right now, it feels like I am just occupying space. It seems my energy for everything is ebbing. I have even wondered if I should waste any more time on writing—period. There seems to be nothing gained by it. At my age it is easy to see the edge of the abyss. It is no longer just an intellectual wonderment, and perhaps there are better ways to spend my remaining years. The leaden weight of this depression cuts itself deep into my shoulders, as it has since my earliest childhood. It speaks to me, tells me it will never go away.

I dreamt last night about a man I worked with at one time in the past, and how, upon crossing paths with him years later, he treated me with utter contempt. A soul souring experience. One that caused me to think long and hard trying to remember my sin. I drew a blank then, as I do now. Something happened. Something lost in time. But only to me. How does one commit an atrocious act, then bury and forget it? How many others have I forgotten?

Can one seek forgiveness for forgotten things without looking a fool? And further, having acknowledged one’s boorish side, where does change begin? Especially within the boundaries of an indifferent universe. Scream into the night and night answers back with impartial silence. My judgments, my criticisms all come from within, created by me, only by me. Maybe that is all that can be said

I sit mired in these thoughts. Sweet Grecy comes into the room, kisses me on the mouth, embraces me tight. I breathe her in, breathe her deep into my lungs, her smells fill me with life, with desire, and lift me higher than I have ever been. For almost fifteen years she has stood beside me and shared this burden with a grace I do not possess. Her love is enough to cure me for now, to carry me into the dark of night, where perhaps I will sleep sound and dream of different things.

As always,

Sig

To read more of Sigurd’s letters, click here!