Wednesday, November 3, 2010

invisible shadow

The truth is, you began this correspondence under a misapprehension; you found my name and address on an envelope with the Christmas cards or penciled in an old address book, and you convinced yourself that you knew me, that you remembered me, although we have never met, never spoken, never had a relationship. We did not sit next to each other in third grade, we did not take driver's ed together, we did not work in the same office, we did not attend the same camp, church, or university.
The truth is that we are strangers, that the first letter you wrote was delivered to an address that no longer exists, that may never have existed, and, yes, I confess to you, here, in writing: I committed a federal offense and read a letter written to someone other than myself, and for four years, seven months, three weeks, and five days, I have allowed you the luxury of the fantasy of your nostalgia. You do not know who I am, you do not know where I am, you do not know how I am: in fact, you cannot be entirely certain as to my age, my gender, my values, my hobbies, my politics.




reading
Fragile Things / Neil Gaiman

weather
deep frosts