It has been a while since my last hand written note to you. I know you never read it, I never meant for you to, but writing to you helps.
As I told you before our falling out, I have never met anyone as deplorable as you. I did not realize you existed. All your hurt and hatred built up inside and spouting onto those around you. It is as if you have venom that pumps through your veins. Over the years it has poisoned you. It comes out of your mouth most often to those who are closest to you. Those people are few now. It is you who has secluded yourself away from society, and perhaps even humanity, your actions are so often inhumane. I do not know how you live with yourself. Where does your volatile anger come from? I have been told that no one ever loved you, so you morphed into a being beyond love. As if some grotesque mutant, that lives on the underbelly of society. You paint your face and try to walk among the people but I believe I see you for who you truly are. A poisonous creature, who is trying to harm the last few human beings who still have hope in you. What will become of you? Some say you will shrivel up and die in your loneliness and hatred. Some say there is still hope for you that there will be a happily ever after as in a fairy tale ending. I am not certain if those occur anymore. Society is jaded and hopeless for the most part. Made up of agnostics, atheists, and crazy fanatical people; where has sanity gone? Where are the innocent, the hopeful? When I look around I see no hope for society.
What do you see? I cannot imagine how you view this world. I have seen you eat your young for your own satisfaction as certain members of the wild kingdom do. It is unbelievable. I tried to cut you out of my life. If you were wondering why we have not spoken or you have not seen me. It is not me it is you. I cannot risk your venom seeping into my pores, I just cannot risk it. Whatever it is that you are I never wish to be. Loneliness is a terrible disease, but I do not think it is one you had. It developed from all your other illnesses, all your mental disorders, your volatile personality, your hurtful ways, and your selfish ambition. Your skewed view of reality has brought you to today. Even your children dread having to see you. Be careful what bed you make, your poison might just kill you.
Perhaps I am wrong about you, but I highly doubt it. I have given much thought, and have observed you over the years. Your behaviour is astonishing. I used to work with children, and even the most misbehaved child with some sort of disability never behaved as childishly as you. Perhaps you never really grew up. Some days I wish I could write you off and pretend we never met, pretend you have no place in my life. But in some ways you do, albeit small but it still scratches at the back of my mind. Just to be around you angers me. Like a blaze in my mind.
Some people have learned to compartmentalise you. They say that you and your illness are not the same. Those people still have compassion for you. They are those who hope, hope for a better end. One where your disease is gone and you can become who perhaps you were always supposed to be. Maybe there is still good in you. I do not know. I hope not for you, but for those who have hope in you, that their mind would be at rest. I hope that your venom will never flow through them.
