It has been a year, almost exactly Since you began writing love letters to me in flowery languages…French, Persian, English better than my own- but yet, in person, you remained so self-conscious! I am sorry for everything, for how our lives became destroyed by our mutual paranoia- other people, and poisoned by work that brought out the very worst in us both. We are a tragedy, I am told.
I am now in a new relationship- I have been in a few since our mutual paranoia lead us into darker waters than we could dream of prior. He does not write me love letters every day, in three languages, but he has inspired me to learn my 5th. He does not challenge me to the point of blood on paper for philosophies I little understand…but I can hold him, touch like I deserve to touch and be touched. Also, he knows about you.
Sometimes, I hate you. I hate you for the pain and suffering, the hell of my last year, the confusion and uncertainty you caused, and the times my fatalistic tendencies were exasperated by your games.
Sometimes, I miss you- but not as often as I thought i would, and far more often than I should.
I learned my hardest lessons from you. I learned the alienation of the intelligent, and that you were a man who simply pretends at a thing until it is believed he is that thing.
My heart aches for you, but I realize you used me for my mind, admiring me and despising me all at once. Did you take satisfaction at thinking you deceived me into thinking you cared? Or did you actually love me? Was it a combination of the two?
Know this- the only reason you have not been served with papers, that your career has not been ruined by me, is because I have not followed through with what others advised me.
You only continue at my mercy.
Most of all, I want you to know that by doing thins, I have proven myself to be the more ethical of the two of us. They say that those who cannot do, teach.
Your interest in Philosophy concurs.