A fictional letter.
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Let me commence, as usual, with vulgarity.
When Moses found a job in Sinai and eventually had his work visa to the mount, god disburdened all expected tribulations, from the moment He handed him the stick to when He himself carved the commandments. Jesus also had his fears soon terminated once he'd realized the devil was overrated. Mohammed, on the other hand, was the toughest of them all, the first modern diplomat. First he had to deal with human traffickers to seek refuge in Ethiopia when he came out – following the pain of a three-year disclosure – then he was forced to manage a rude inbox of harsh words and outright discrimination. Be that as it might have been, he never complained about the shitload of scares he'd received from god, starting from Gabriel's monologue to the pandemonium of Isra and Mi'raj.
I'm tired, Loggy, of making compromises on a daily basis. I'm in severe pain, more than comfortably-numb. I don't believe I can find the Mohammed in me, and if what I say, and now write, might sound disinterested and flippant (which is far from the truth) it only serves to confirm how I'm slowly turning into the sleaziest of all prophets.
As my old land-of-cotton professor, I have the right to complain to you; I'd never ask why you have forsaken me, naturally, but I certainly commend my bootlegged rants into your hands, as you have once bootlegged those films for which I'll forever be thankful.
These are the nameless eighties. "The Eighties" in the English directly conveys to you, whities, an era of many things. None of them are recognized down here, but I hope you still remember our own eighties, for better or worse.
Since the day I moved into this dump, tens and tens of drain flies have been flying into my bathtub, hanging out for a while, and eventually died. Perhaps my tub is a "shoulder where death comes to cry". Poetry and crying aside, I believe they could work as a metaphor for a self-centered graduate to publish a "symbolic" poem or a short story on the state of political prisoners or the soldiers in Chad.
A Libyan A'lum singer (I think I'm now expected to say something cultural about my country, for the obvious reasons) once howled upon a state of mind through which I'm going; one song in particular to have seven past simples. Now I remember I was a good A'lum teacher to you, so you know how absurd it would seem if I tried to translate it. Seven veiled past simples send you my last words. This is my last station, Loggy. I'm still graced with self-love and Spinozan wisdom, and you know well that I, and everyone else, can never be remembered by a single letter, smuggled through the resident transits, only perchance, to find refuge in your hands. After all, there is no after all.
Fare thee well,
Your old student.