Letter from Y to X

Dear X,

You left me about a year ago… no, maybe it wasn’t that long ago, but it feels like a lifetime. I am still angry at you sometimes. You are the only thing that still makes me angry, which is a surprise, for I no longer have the strength or the disposition to feel such strong feelings. Perhaps it’s just one of those days where everything seems a mountain. But it’s no surprise, as everything is a mountain.

I thought things would get better with time – I am not speaking of you alone, but of everything – but this has not been the case, so I am on the verge of a nervous breakdown. I write to you, not wanting or needing a reply – I am long over needing or wanting anything from you – but because you are precisely the last source of a not-so-negative feeling. I do not think anger is negative per se. The way I see it, anger is a motivator, a fuel for action. However, I am short of fuel these days.

I remember being angry at you since the moment I woke up until I went to bed. I remember being angry at your passivity and your victim attitude, as well as your selfishness and your inability to see anything else beyond your own bellybutton. These things were unnerving long before they led you to leave me. Funnily enough, I believe I am starting to fall a little into that pattern: the victim attitude and the selfishness one, not so much passivity. I have never been a passive agent, and I would hate the day I shall become one.

No, I write to you because I am starting to feel overwhelmed (which is a euphemism, since I have been overwhelmed and surpassed by the circumstances that surround me for a long time now). I am starting to understand how you could be so apathetic and limited. I am at the point in which, if we were still together, I would leave you.

I feel disconnected of the world that surrounds me. Everything seems surreal, both the events that take place near me and those which are part of the greater scale of things. I do not care about anything else that is not my bed, which is not even a bed. For the past year (maybe not that long ago, but it feels like a lifetime) I have been sleeping on a sofa, and barely sleeping at times, because of the incredible amount of work I must do, and maybe that has something to do with it – the lack of proper rest – but I do feel exhausted, fed up and empty at the same time, incredibly disconnected.

I write this letter because I want you to know, X, that I feel nothing for you now except for anger sometimes, and even that shall pass soon enough, because I simply don’t have the will or the strength to carry on feeling.

I do not wonder and will not ask what is going on with you, because I could not care less, but I hope this letter reaches you in good health, why not.

Simply,

Y

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