Bite the dust
My dear,
I cannot argue that your life is good and should be preserved, cher Monsieur. An average day for you may be more awful than even my worst day. Who am I to say that you should choose to live your life? I will not, in my good conscience, be someone who asks you to hope for a cure, as hope is a treacherous companion, Monsieur. It is indeed hope, that I believe, drove you out of your wits. And I cannot ask you to call your plan off only because it will cause enormous pain to others around you. They, the brave souls, knew what they were signing up for when they chose to live life with all its burdens and sacrifices every single day.
I too am serious when I say that I have nothing to live for. I have nothing to look forward to, nor any foreseeable way to make a difference in this world. But I’m just too much of a coward to end my life.
I realize the weight of the words I carry while I’m writing to you, William. I have only one way to conclude this letter. And I can neither escape from sounding like a heedless woman, having a blithe disregard for the agony you’re going through nor can I stop myself from coming across as a heartless wench who prompted you to take an irreversible decision.
Like an Apollo to Hyacinth, the son of Amyclas of Sparta, I hope our lord will regret killing you while teaching you how to live, William. And grow flowers from the place where your blood might be spilled, because I know he loved you, William. For without love, you wouldn’t have been blessed with a fiery heart and immeasurable brilliance.
In the name of our shared history, I implore you, to consider a postponement of your intentions. Let the sun rise and set once more before you embark upon any irrevocable journey. Not today, my love.
I hope you’ll find solace and free your soul from the ache, in whatever course of action you choose to act on, William. Until the tides of time reunite us once more.
Yours most sincerely,
Helen
(An admirer of your poems and your companion during the wild summers of the ’30s)
