Stacks and stacks of letters piled in a box. Unopened notes from former lovers, old friends, enemies, the gas company. Here’s a Christmas card from a relative trying to save my soul. Reminding me that Jesus is the reason for the season. It’s cold outside.
I read through some of the old mail, finding it to be quite boring. An ex-wife threatening me for leaving her, ex-girlfriends telling me they think they’re pregnant, notes from mechanics saying I owe them. The wind blows through cracks.
You’re better off alone. Solitude is the answer. I gave up on mankind years ago. What good are other people? Always wanting. Always in need of. And then you yourself becomes needy. You’re just following suit. You’ve become a lemming. A whole country of sheep. Where’s the originality? Where’s the authentic? The real deal. Frozen rain hits the windows.
I take the box of stuffed envelopes and burn it outside. Some type of altar. The past is the past and you can’t keep living in the past. Burn baby burn. The flames are blue and orange, yellow. It’s dark. Three in the afternoon and it’s dark.
The letters are blackened now. Ashes. Too much energy spent on history. My history. If only I could burn my brain, my soul. The moon hangs in the sky.