A Letter to Myself

Death is the refuge much like writing in the soft sketchy shadows on paper. The interplay of light and dark and gradient textures which we too move through and within and among each other shift like our murky pasts.

How could we have been anything other than the encircling and folding, our careful paper creases like an origami figure fitted and interlocking though we cannot see it.

Sensation. Thought tither while my hairs quiver on the back of my palms, a certain shaking, always flowing never mistaken—make no mistake the same moves within me as you. We’re like draft mates, wind saints, the breeze bridging us all. You just have to let your blood feel again. Not just tepid quips or jostled, shaking, scathed wrists, no no, but that lustrous movement, that flourish of spirit and pearly, toothy grins. I remember you, sir, you’re still here, still with me. I have never left, I am still the same man. Things have just changed now. I am not alone.
I am not alone…

Here in the room, though my limited faculties cannot perceive our complex shadow tapestry, I am interwoven and hugged with a million out-stretched arms of the most compassionate and wholesome people I have ever met.

Call me crazy, or insane. Sure, but at the heart of anything and everything in this world and universe is belief. 

At least I have that, and it can never be taken from me. 

I will not impose it on others. It is a cherished secret. Something special like purple magnets, or the unknown something in my pocket, “my special.”


Goodnight, Husk. Always remember, I love you. I love you very much. And I, am you Husk. 

I love myself, I am learning to love myself and appreciate who I am and the subtle silent times, the breathing times, the awareness where speech and knowledge become obsolete.

Breathe into me and I’ll breathe back into you.