I’d just like to thank you for taking hold of the last four years of my life and raising my hopes for the future. I’d like to thank you for giving me clothes when I needed them and food when I needed it and for fucking my brains out when my brains needed fucking. I hope that the time we spent in the Quarters with my family sleeping neerby quietly ignoring what you proceeded to do to me - what, rather I proceeded to do to you - was worthwhile for you, that you got the stimulation you so needed, Because now That Im Free of that person you call Life, that stringy, sour, white strand you called Sacred and me savior, that peculiar institution we engaged in because there was no other forseeable alternative, I am LOST.
Before, when there was a before, an upon a time I was a blank space defined in contrast to your POSITIVE, concerete avowal. now, a blank space in the void and I have to thank you for forgetting to stick your neck out for me after I craned my neck so often in your arms.
Dear you duplicitous, idiot, Worm,
NOw that youve forgotten how you like your coffee and why you raised your pious fist to the sky, and the reason for your stunning African Art collection, and the war we fought together, and the promises you made and the laws we rewrote, I am left here alone to recreate My WHOLE HISTORY without benefit of you, my compliment, my enemy, my oppressor, my Love
Should i never be heard from again, follow the Route of my forebears and quietly, GO, or shall I seek to kill you, burning the last of the fuel you gave me and expected of me?
“‘But I never looked like that!’ - How do you know? What is the ‘you’ you might or might not look like? Where do you find it - by which morphological or expressive calibration? Where is your authentic body? You are the only one who can never see yourself except as an image; you never see your eyes unless they are dulled by the gaze they rest upon the mirror or the lens (I am interested in seeing my eyes only when they look at you): even and especially for your own body, you are condemned to the repertoire of its images.”—Roland Barthes