Dear Aphrodite,
The pen
in my hand shakes from the beers I drank hours ago. I pulled myself off the
floor in the empty apartment to write to you for a while. The words made flow
out from me like whiskey because in my drunken state it will only allow me to
speak the Truth to you. A Truth I hide from at the bottom of this bottle.
I wrote
you this letter hours before I started to drink and when the Sun was still up.
I sat at work penning the letter in my mind like I always do when work is slow.
I hate my job, but that is no new, news to you. I have moaned about this pain
for far too long in our bed. I spoke so much about wishing to be somewhere
different and happy that the words fall flat, but how did life get here? How did
it end up with me on the floor of my apartment alone and drunk? When did I get
this bad?
I have
so many dreams from your brother, Morpheus, to tell you about but the main one
being about the house I wish to have. He has blessed me with a great vision of
a life to come. A house in the mountain with a study full of books and me
sitting there writing stories. The home is small but big enough for my wife and
I. My wife walks the house in my dreams, and our grandchildren come to spend
the summer in the woods with us, but it is a dream and just a dream. A cruel
dream, maybe? I don't know anymore because that dream feels so far off.
It sits
at the top of a mountain I can’t climb. Every step forward is only meet with the
mountain tossing some stones down at me as if there is giant sitting at the top
throwing things at me and laughing. It knocks me back to the point where I’m
not sure I can stand anymore. I drop to my knees creaking them and praying to
the Lord to help me. He reaches down lifting my heart and telling me, giving up is not in the cards. I do not
get that luxury, not like other people.
But you
have heard all of this before and is not the point of my letter. Then again I
don’t know if there is a point to all my words. The words are soaked in alcohol,
so there is no telling what I’m trying to say.
I miss
you.
Although, you are not real and just
an archetype I have built in my mind of love and lust mixed with a few real
people in my life. It is, however, still nice to talk to
you. I can't see you in the house within my mind, and that is why I write this
letter to you. You have left my bed and I long to have you back. I long to feel
something outside of this spinning world right now.
In the
house, if you came back, you would find me sitting in front of the hallway
drinking. Your brother Hades walks among the books in the hallways. His sons
Thanatos showed up to my door with a letter bearing bad news, followed by him.
I went to the funeral, paid my coin
to the dead, and came home to find an empty bed. Even if you were
here, I would still feel alone. When facing Death or the Poet, I always feel
alone. Does everyone feel this way when looking at the gravestones? Do they
understand what it means to die?
We bear this burden alone. We are
all going to die and no matter who is around us, we do it alone. It is our
bodies that face your brother. It is our souls, alone, who walk to the gates of
the Kingdom of Wealth and meets the master of that place. It just so happens he
came to read my writings. I could not, dear, send me away. So, I welcome him
in, wouldn't you have done the same?
And yet
in this loneliness, facing Hades, I feel a great sense of purpose. Your brother
has sent his son Thanatos one too many times after me, and the one true God has
saved from him. The Lord has given me life more than once, and there is a
reason behind it. A reason, I can’t lie, is lost to me right now but I feel it
in my bones.
The
reason or better yet, the purpose for my life is unique to me just as much as
it is specific to your life. We each have our quest to taken for the Lord.
But there is something I have come to understand in my reading, and it is; Everything we do matters. This is not
unique to me or anyone else. This is the underlining purpose to life.
What a
heavy burden that concept is to carry. Everything
we do matters. It paints the day in incredible ways, and it almost makes
getting up hard because it is so easy to waste the day away. It is so easy to
fail. But I find it the most important thing is I have come to understand the
concept. Yes, I waste days away some time, and sometimes I make them count. I
always try to make them count.
This
revelation of the soul explains so much about the way I feel. I always felt
anxious to start my life or to do something great with it. I sit among friends
feeling like I’m being crushed by a great quest I haven't started yet. I long
to be away from the world so that I can start my task. I long for you or love
or a wife so I can have someone with me on this quest. I long to make a
different in my life, in someone's else life.
This
undying feeling paints every action I take. It’s why I hate my job. It’s why I
hate feeling stuck at school or in my existence. It’s why I hate being lost in
the throes of loneliness because I feel as if I’m missing some great companion
to my adventure. It’s why I can’t stop climbing the mountain.
The
greatest action or words I can speak is to never give up because what we do
matters. What I say, what I think, what I write and most of all getting up in
the morning, matters. It all matters.
What odd thing to
come to when Hades sits down across from you on the floor? You pass him a beer,
he nods, you both have cheered, and you tap the cans together for the dead. He
drinks with you for a while. You reminisce about the new soul who sits in his
kingdom now. He cries a little. You laugh a little, and then he leaves. Somehow
you feel even more alone. And there not much else for you to do other than keep
saying …
Everything I do matters.
Everything. I. Do. Matters.
Your Lover,
A Writer
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