Some weeks ago I wrote you a letter
it felt like running backwards
to a time and place that bore little resemblance to what I thought I was
for that I used to travel so much
through words and images and symbols
I scarcely felt alone
as I was constantly moving and had hordes of characters hanging around.
Living since has been feeling like stepping further into a sticky
stinky slimy mud
Entering the Nothingness of a world of
reasonable thought and (sometimes polite) savageness
in which all my fellows cannot follow me.
I think I disgust them
all covered in realistic boredom and
crude stillness.
Dear John,
Sometimes I feel the urge of writing
but it soon fades
as so many people and creatures did
(you included)
then I am assaulted by shame
and embarrassment
of being unable to cope with this evermounting
reality
Also, incapable of fantasizing
I've turned you, so concrete and real (somewhere
out there)
into an old phantom
(maybe this time you won't disappear when needed)