Dear Jay,

When I first met your sister she told me "You must be bipolar...", with that kind of certainty we didn't have about anything, not even about each other. I smiled but, to be frank, I felt this urge to bite her neck until she bled to death. Like that didn't have anything off about it... I think I was used to myself back then, when I didn't go out much, when I only knew you and her and your petite living room table. I could bare with me when you were around.
The thing is I don't know what to do with myself anymore. I waste hours staring at my hands and legs, as if I'm not supposed to be dragging them with me through this fiasco of a winter. The fact that it hasn't snowed yet makes me want to crawl into a hole and die. I know you get it. And I know I'm underestimating you. You wouldn't choose such a dull passing.
I'm sorry for being a bother, really. I know there's a lot going on in that screwed up apartment you call home. How can a home be a home without  a bread knife, a pencil sharpener or sewing needles, for that matter? How in the world do you stretch canvass without nails? And what about the windows? Oh, yes. There are none.
My music teacher's son is playing the accordion in my head. It's this song of loss, pain and self-loathing. He plays it well. I couldn't picture it any other way. It runs through his veins. What's in my veins, though? My blood is worthless.
You know, I'm sure you're smart enough to come up with a sharp object. You just don't want to anymore. Admit it. It's not that there's nothing there to hurt yourself with. It's just that you don't want to do it anymore. I'm happy for you, really. It took you long enough. That means it'll take me a while too.
I must be bipolar. But aside from that, there are so many other things I wish I wasn't. I'm stuck, you see. I've been struggling with this letter. You can tell, I know. There's just no beginning and no ending. It doesn't make much sense. Well, nothing makes much sense lately. It's like my life is this sum of moments that clash and explode into each other, like soap bubbles. All I catch is a glimpse I turn into pathetic text. But wind or no wind, collision or clear path, they all die trying to become part of the world.
That's me. I can't be outside your living room, I can't just follow the light and grow up like your sister, I can't survive, I'm a goner. I can't greet the world with wondering Miller eyes. I despise the world because I know it will eventually ruin me. You always looked like you were deeply in love with every bit of this shit hole. My New Year's resolution is going to Narnia. Oh, and the kids from Narnia...they all die in the end.
Don't show this to your sister. Spare me. I'm well aware that she'll find at least three more diseases in here and she'll write me back persuading me to let people stuff me in a loony jacket. I just wrote this to tell you that I get it now. There's no singing and dancing, no dryads, no fauns. Just the song of my music teacher's son and dogs howling somewhere afar.

Hey, life.
Schrodinger's cat.
It's on.