More from the Asylum

The compulsion to write comes like thirst, a miscellaneous yearning with nothing quite in mind. It comes like hunger, like the view of a delicious delicacy that I think I deserve to digest. In these mountains, I’m always thirsty. It’s the altitude— the dry, biting, freshness. The salivatingly blue morning sky. But, still, I’m unsure what to say.

Not that there aren’t plenty of options. My little endings and beginnings sit in the shadows of bigger finales and unknown expanses. Holidays, birthdays, and new time whisper at me to restart and reset. To think about the past year and think about how every birthday gets less exciting after this one. To think about what kind of relationship I’m running from and running to. To think about what the fuck I’m going to do after school. About who sticks around.

Today, I’m turning up the music and hoping that truth seeps out—but not too much.

More letters from the asylum:

See First: I Promise I’m Chill, Chill 2

Dear Lover,

It sounds like they’re letting me out soon. I mean, out of this one. Apparently I was in too deep. Apparently white coats and white walls aren’t my thing. They should have asked me— I could have told them that day 1. Remember? I said I wasn’t that crazy—I wasn’t crazy! I’m chill. So they’re moving me to a new place. A place in the country, where I can work outside with my hands in the dirt. Where I can go into town for groceries. Where I can do my own laundry. Not bad, huh? Anyways, I’m missing you today.

Dear Lover,

They did the mail rounds for the last time before I leave. You didn’t send me anything—which is totally cool—but I just am worried that you’ll write me here and not there and that maybe you didn’t get my last letter with my new address so I’m writing this now fast so I can mail it before tomorrow and you will have my new address and write me there. Please write me there. Please write me, won’t you? All of my letters seem to drift into an abyss and I never know if I’ll get your little blue envelopes with your scrawling handwriting. But when they come, Lover, nothing’s better. I mean, it’s okay if you’re busy—I’m busy now anyways—But if you’re ever a little bit free, write me. Write me.

Dear Lover,

I made it! Jesus, it’s beautiful. It doesn’t even feel like an asylum—if that’s possible. Instead of white and plain, it’s fresh and blue and light and gentle. My eyes are full and my lungs are empty of air and gosh I feel far away from you. The sun is setting and I just want to grab it and smash it down into an envelope and send it to you so you could imagine just a fraction of what I see now. It makes me sad how much you don’t see.

Dear Lover,

Today, they told us to find something to be grateful for. I guess I’m grateful that you’re not afraid of me. I’ve given you the Words that they put on me, and they haven’t frightened you. I’ve told you where I am. If you wanted to, you could visit me here, I think. I can’t promise that it won’t be scary, but I can promise that I’m chill.

Dear Lover,

I just got your letter. Maybe don’t visit me just yet. Don’t. I’m not ready.

Dear Lover,

They’ve got us drawing pictures, here. I drew your smile, just from memory. Crazy how things like that stick. I hope you’re having a good day.

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