But all emotion is buried under The rest of my life. As I write, it comes out, Through the nib of my pen, A muddled jumble of half-baked thoughts, Hastily slapped together in a weak effort To rid my mind of torment. And the thumbscrews of frustration Clamp down again Eliciting screams from my dreaming Mouth. And I can't cling to anything or anyone, Because everything is meaningless. So I hide, in the cave of naive innocence, Never daring to thrust my face into The red Light of experience.
Experience comes with pain.
So does joy, love, laughter, all of reality. And as soon as I can learn to accept this pain, The sooner I can go on. You said that you were the letter-writing type. I wrote you a letter - short, messy. I left thoughts unfinished, and never started saying what I wish I could have.