No One Can Read Me in the Dark

Dear Kate,

Dark and rainy, that's when I see the most.

Rainboots, I used to hate them.  Bulky, scrape me at the jeans seam, pull on my socks when going uphill, not a natural extension of my body.  Last year though I got myself these expensive ladies boots after season, light as foam, meant for all day wear, and best of all, not ladylike save for a few subtle styling details.  Not that I care.

I don't because no one can read me in the dark.

Slow walk, talking to my dog, speaking the language of leash tug, my writing was done out there.  By the time I took her back, fed her, brushed her teeth, and sat down in front of this computer, all my words were spent.  What you are getting here is not a second-chewing.  It's a remembrance of things past, in search of lost time.  Apophatically, to reclaim by negation, is what I do with words.

Still remember the voice recorder I asked you to buy for me?  I've never used it.  I thought through it as I would with any other purchasing decision, and truly believed I would make good use of it, press on the red button the moment it happens, to capture, capsulate life as it streams out of me.  Ambition and stupidity, both needed for one to even attempt such a (de)feat.  I am happy to have plenty of both; at least now I know the frustration lies not in the sure failure.

I am going to do the unthinkable now, to explain my obvious self: Every sentence I wrote above I wrote half of it.  Need I get even more obvious to say the rest is up to you?

I've grown old, less ambitious and much smarter to acknowledge my earthly reality, that no one is truly listening, no time, no space, no need, no will, no presence to spare.  Tell me like it is, they say, asking from me the tribute of condescension.  I want to know you, they claim, the frustration of a sure failure fails to win them over to see truth, in the dark, rainy, when one sees the most.

Yours, Alex