A Letter To A Young Girl — Morning Papers VII
A Season Of Crying Love And Shooting Pain Alone
When the end comes — where will you be? ’Tis now, a perilous season for some; the long-term suffers of the self emboldened by the self to sprinkle the hateful chorus to that very self. A suicidal season — that for some, never resigns it's an awful posting. A girl came across my mind — perhaps one of the memories or someone, right now, somewhere, totally unbeknownst to me.
I cannot say of which it is, but either or, I feel acquainted to it to give this mad rambling a go this here morning.
Recently, with my piece of Gorgeous Girl — seductive as the premise to this piece was; even more so was the outset goal — I carry that trait of conveying hardy messages through a Girl of much fate offstance and besetted to Penelope it all.
The great stressing has been in motion since the beginning of this universe — all the heat, and compression, and gravity to drag it all away, and asunder so it all goes, to form some jeering globe, not doubting that.
The tongues have been tided my dear, and let it take me now, as I gift away you with the setting speech of a good Doctor, not the fool that I am erstwhile.
Where my mind first draws credence to is the concurrent narcotic wars raging all around this here globe. Sad, isn’t it — yet I see no end to these storms anytime soon to alleviate that woe. I cannot — even my heart hurdles itself heated — I cannot give myself totally over to it; have I never told you of absolutions caused by total bending to Pessimism — hardly a writ to live by, surely not my dear?
And a Girl caught in the crossfire of it — certainly some is to be blamed on her, by the willful telling of her mind, but by her disposition through her origins of coding and mental earth, she cannot be toiled blame utterly.
I think of that American Girl as I knew my own American Girl — wherever she may be these days, I cannot say, though I want to. I think of her and to reason the damage lingering — I wish I could do so fully now but I can only give my slightest of thoughts to you all.
Indeed, I have picked up that tone of a belated mother in woe and worry over such a daughter — over a sister like it.
Suicide or rather your death may be a blessing to some — that cannot be misjudged, I know some who would want the lingering menaces of a society, caught and dead; preferably by their own hands — whether by overdose, shadowing menaces of Bridges and High-loaf builds, to awful ends in shallow enough seas yet the amount always, to drown one’s self upon, in practice upon that shelf in both senses of my concerns — Booze and the Sea.
I could draw you all to that, for some, that may be a sudden enough clarity to bring them back — to realize what they have become since their days of innocence not abroad, but in the winsome time of a beloved home and backyard, if fortunes be so kind.
For some, it may — for some others, to be rebuked, even in the mere mentioning of their name to such things, will be silence and fall upon ears that have all about folded up — perhaps, years ago, many years ago.
What can I say to a Suicidal Girl of once much faith? Of such beaming character — whence the mountains shone most magnificently now only turn into inescapable highrises and red fields. All the scientific methods could court you a perception of reasonablity but will that drag her off the edge before the counterweight tips too far to chuck her on over? I think not — for I know, in the greatest pits of despair, a stranger being kind might be the right kind of affair to have; a Mama working as a nurse in the transitional room, saying: “Sugar, it doesn’t have to be this way.” Might be enough for such a Young Thing. Maybe, maybe — but sometimes, all the words and charity in the world may not save — may not, may not.
Sometimes it isn’t enough — I’m not enough to save her; you weren’t enough to know back then when troubles were arising — not enough, nary enough.
But, I keep my hopes out there, even in the blackest of moments, and on a good day and I try really hard, one soul might be coaxed back into some kind of living away from a brutal end.
The wish is there, For things not to be this way.
Ta-ta now.
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