A fictional letter.
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When I was five, my mother showed me a drawing she made. It had god barbequing someone. She told me about Hell for the first and the last time, for I suddenly had a crying fit that night. “What’s going on, why’re you crying?” my mom asked in a midnight fright. “Because… fa fa fa, God is going to send me… fa fa, to Hell!”. Poor okaachan.
In the drawing, god resembled No-Face, and I’m now recalling the first time you took me to watch the movie in the quietest cinema in Osaka. You told me the movie had squeezed the fuck out of yen more than it had of Titanic.
Since then I have pitied the god in the drawing, deeming it a lost spirit, in need of guidance. I don’t pity people; I love some and am indifferent to the rest.
That night I slept in your room, something I couldn’t have done in Tokyo, being the hotelflies we were, thanks to the money that we never had. I hope the company is still treating you well. I can’t think of a hotel we didn’t crash into. We had separate rooms, naturally, where I watched films all night and you had the usual Sake drowse at bloody 10. You lent me a yukata of yours and I slipped my 55 Kg flesh into it, obi-less. I told you about our own comfy pants in the Green Mountain. I told you I’d wear it strapless when sleeping. With the straps on, it has ample space for the balls to dance when walking and peacefully shake when fapping. The primal fap-pants.
I’m reminding you of one day we spent together two years ago because of what Setsuko told me at the embassy. I’ve just arrived from Tripoli. You stopped writing and did not respond to my emails. I still find it hard to believe that one could experience dementia at such a young age.
When I was a child, moreover, I’ve had moments when I said to myself, “Oh, shit! So, life isn’t going to be bright and shiny as I thought it would be”. I said so when I vomited for the first time in my life – too much halva – when I first had a face cut – I rode a bike straight into a light pole – and when I first experienced an electric shock – I touched the only uninsulated plug in the house. These were all physical. I chose my life format to be in moments. The other formats… I cannot put my finger on them.
I’m not sure whether you’ve had the same feeling when the doctor told you you were losing yourself. I know that you’re too wise to do so, that you’re too wise to be stuck in your own kamikakushi, but who knows. I know that you’re the only Jap I know who never says Souka out loud. At least not in my presence. I also know that you’re still holding up to your sensibility that would allow you to understand why I forced myself to write a letter which you’d be compelled to see in your inbox, rather than an email you could ignore.
Write back, Daisuke. I’m flying to Tripoli next month. My letter will have reached you by then, and yours could be there at the embassy. You know I hate Tripoli so don’t let me go through hell twice. The city is getting worse but I’ll find solace with Setsuko and what we’ll remember of our own Tripoli and Tokyo, and I’ll certainly find solace with your letter. You know I can’t fly to Japan anymore, so please: Write back.