I’m trying to wrap my head around Kant and Hegel and Rousseau but all I can think about is you and I, which is really stupid because neither you nor I have made any significant contributions to the world but, hey, at least both of us are still alive.
I don’t know why I’m writing.
My heart is pumping absinthe because I’ve run out of blood. It burns. My eyes burn, my lungs burn, my arteries burn. Everything is scorching from the inside out because I have a personal hell inside. I’m not sure if I’ve lost it. I’m not even sure I’m alive because it isn’t possible for humans to feel so vitrified all the time. You know how sometimes I trap flies inside of my glass at the dinner table? Well today life trapped me inside it’s giant motherfucking glass and all I can hear are the muted conversations around me. No matter how hard I kick, I’m in this glass alone, burning, consuming the little oxygen left.
I think about life and how maybe, just maybe, nothing actually matters. I mean Hegel could spend his entire life synthesizing and Rousseau could spend his entire life being romantic and making Marie Antoinette pretend she’s a farmgirl, so? Answer that Griffith, you have a fucking answer for everything…
Today I researched your name because I’m a sucker for semantics and because the thought of you is like an IV dripping with morphine. I learnt that Griffithsin is a type of poison which seems all to fitting, but I can’t explain why. I think it’s because you sometimes make the burning go away but I know you’re killing me. You make me feel exactly the way Griffithsin looks, all tangled and disorganized but perfect. I don’t know if you will ever agree to meet with me again, because I wouldn’t if I were you. But if you do, please know that I’ll try to make my breaths longer and that I’m not in life’s glass every day. Today is just a bad one.
(potentially but realistically) Love,