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Short Story / New Werther

August 30, 2009

When I write of drunks, I write with enough drink in me but not so much alcohol as to lose the writer.

The greats are fully everything; they are the drunk and the writer in a single moment. This is probably why my writing isn't (or ever will be) the epic repeated in college lectures everywhere. I can't be stumbling and creating, I can't be writing and experiencing. I bounce in between two polarities. I am the half finished bottle in the hands of a professional drunk. Not fully there at the end line.

As such, when I write about happiness or depression, I write with enough happiness or depression drunk inside me but never too much (for when I am filled with the infite capacity of either there is no strength to pick up a pen). Considering this and after reading my writings, I have come to the conclusion: I am not so good at the entireties of happiness or depression.

Still, I am not well.

So can it be said that even in normality and averages we are not sane?

Dear Wilhelm, centuries have passed but we still write to you generation after generation. We have been writing to you even before a heartbreak of a pistol. And I have to say- I've just picked up the dropped bottle and forgotten my thoughts like broken glass but the infinite blades of grass swell up my heart to exhaustion and I can write no more than the last sentence.

Even after my death I will not be well (but we will breathe up our dust in old letters).

We'll write you again soon.

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