Sometimes I know exactly what I want to tell you, sometimes the words to describe how I feel about you are hard to find. I’m sitting here drawing a blank, at a loss for words, but at the same time I can feel every word I have yet to write. I can feel. But you can’t feel.
Feelings are among the many things you do not possess. You don’t feel the sadness I feel when you forget about me. You don’t feel the anger I feel when I see you manipulate your way through your life…or should I say what’s left of your life. You don’t know how happy I feel on the days when remnants of your old self manage to surface from time to time, and how let down I feel when I come to terms with the fact that they are as authentic as your pseudo-emotions.
I said that I was drawing a blank, but truth is, you’re the one with the empty space. No dreams, no goals, no ambitions and no passions will ever fill it. Your drug of choice is the only void that can fill that void. Its everything and its nothing.
Time goes by, yet you stop time. You stop life. Your victims are frozen in a moment – because in exchange for the high, they lose a lifetime.
But I’m a victim too. Thank the Lord above, no drug has led me down your path. But as I watch as people I care about are dragged down your dark corridors, winding roads and uphill excursions, I too have been riding along in the backseat, feeling every bump, every wrong turn.
You are one of the most selfish people I know. You take everything and you give nothing. You think the world revolves around you. You think you have it all figured out. You think you have everyone around you fooled, but the joke is on you.
You sleep all day. You’re up all night. You itch all over. You can’t hold a job. Your nose bleeds. You’ve gained weight. You’ve lost weight. You can’t hold a relationship. You’re depressed. You’re anxious. You lie. You cheat. You steal. You think you’re better than everyone else. You think you’re the smallest person on this earth.
Get the hell out and take your bottles, your pills, your joints, your rocks, your needles and everything else you brought here with you. And on your way out, give us back our loved ones you’ve been holding for hostage for so long.
Wait a minute…why am I writing this letter? Why am I expecting anything in return from you? I’m sitting here pouring my heart out, but why?
Because I can feel, but you can’t.