you always wanted to move to oregon. i haven’t been there yet, but san fran seems like the kind of place you imagined oregon to be: breezy, quiet, beautiful. a city of character. i think of your friend david, who loved you, who you went searching for years later, who made you feel better about the scars on your hands by saying they gave you character. i wish i could’ve known him. and i wish you could’ve known san fransisco. i think of alcatraz, of being kept away from the people you love the most, with nothing but time to think of them. i can relate to that, in a way. lately i feel like my mind is my alcatraz, a place where i’m locked away and i can never see you or talk to you, only think of you day after day after day.
standing near the top of the marin headlands, i almost spoke to you, but i was afraid. that you wouldn’t be listening. that you weren’t there. and i would be talking to the ether, my meaningless words carried out to the sea like a garbage truck to a landfill. if i don’t speak, if i stay in this cell in my mind, if i don’t try to escape from alcatraz, you might still be out there somewhere. the danger of light is that it makes you see what’s there, or what isn’t. i’m not ready to leave the darkness of solitary. i’m not ready to see that you’re not there.