hassani know i shouldn't be writing to you, but i don't know to whom else to turn. i can barely drag myself out of bed, and after my taking those two weeks off study i got the email from university informing me that 'this is the last warning'. i don't have any appetite, and when i looked in the mirror just now i almost didn't recognise myself and for the last two days i have barely eaten anything other than the last two bites of tortilla and my cheeks are cadaverously sunken.
outside the sun is beating, bright and mocking, but my head is swirling with darkness and dread. when i lean out the window i feel the summer air sucking me out. i look down and i am drawn giddily to the vertiginous plummet to the pavement from my sixteenth-floor window. the knives in my kitchen glitter with allure like dangling jewellery from a woman's ears.
i can't gaze upon my top sheet without envisioning it twisted and looped from the overhead light fixture, swinging, tempting me with its release. the oven door gapes open and offers up its hot-breathed maw, except that i read somewhere that natural gas these days has had the lethal component removed, and the sylvia plath route has been confounded.
i don't think that's very considerate, do you? just because you don't write like a good writer doesn't mean that you don't deserve a poetic departure. ha ha!
i was happy before, or whatever it is you call not knowing what you're missing. i was living on bread and water and for one day i tasted cake. oh! see, i cannot return to a prison diet once more. so if you ever read all of this, just know that you blessed this poor inmate with one glorious day of freedom and escape.
if i only truly lived for one day, so many of us sad little moths seeking out the light never live at all. i suppose that i am lucky. but if i am so lucky, why do i feel so doleful, so despondent, so beyond caring?
i must have to stop here; otherwise, it would go on forever.
hassan
- june 7. i think too much which makes my movements impossible