The 30th of August 1985 – Hampton, Virginia

(found in the back of an old notebook, filled with scribbled poetry)

Dear H,

It is all a fiction.

I do not understand, and I won’t. Neither do you. Don’t pretend. Don’t let your eyes glass over. Listen to my lunacy. It is the truth.

When I close my eyes, it all feels so real. That’s what bothers me. That’s what gets my goat.

I know it isn’t. I know I walk through a world that is created, as much or even more than it is real. I know that it isn’t true, that it wasn’t true, that nothing is true. Nothing is true because nothing exists – nothing can be proven to exist – outside of the confines of my own mind.

When you told it to me, it did feel so real. I could feel it even without closing my eyes. And I wanted so desperately to believe.

I had never believed before. I had never had that hope. I had always thought that faith was something given to the weak to keep them from getting restless and resentful when seeing the riches of the strong. I thought that there were those who did not need, who did not get any sustenance from it because their sustenance was won in the field.

But that is beside the point.

The point is that it is all a lie anyway. The reason why I went to kindergarten is a lie. The reason why I tie my shoes in the morning is a lie. It’s all a lie.

The thing that you told me felt so true. I could feel it even without closing my eyes.

But it’s all a fiction, written and acted out by us every day. But it is no crime, and it is no shame. It is a necessity.

I used to feel it when I closed my eyes. That is how I got through the day. Imagination was my surrogate to faith, my supplement to hope. I used to feel it when I closed my eyes. Then, what you told me, I could feel it without closing them. Now I cannot feel it anymore.

It is all a fiction.

-T

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