Peter, I wish you were here to comfort, encourage.
But you are not, are you? I am alone, so very terribly alone.
This world Peter, you’d hope never see. These people here, how they look at life as if it were a blessing, beautiful and wondrous, magical and mystical, a gift from some fantastical god some will smile and tell you. But as for me, I remain prisoner to no illusion. Condemned and powerless, sentenced to a world skillfully wrought of deceptions, where I teeter upon the brink of insanity, mere steps beyond humanity where all becomes clear, so very damnably clear.
I know you won’t answer this letter, even if you wished; such is the penalty of my crime forgotten. But you must know, Peter, I want you to know, they tried to reform me. There in my youth, in their schools, their churches, in my work, throughout my life they effort tirelessly, hoping one day I become as they. And in so many ways, I wish I had. If only I had, I’d not be writing you now, thinking all is perfectly well. But all is not well, Peter. Oh, I’m okay, fear not for that. But the others here, the creatures forever held inferior. And all the suffering and oppression that inferiority carries is their burden to bear, alone. While the ramifications of indifference weigh heavy on this world.
And nothing I do will relieve this.
As nothing I say can ever change this.
This is my last letter to you, Peter. I’ll not write again, so until my freedom, fare you well.
* Thanks to Sonmi for acquainting me with Cloud Atlas – Sextet, repurposed here for which this Letter to Myself would never have came.