I want to write you a letter. I remember, in the beginning we wrote letters to each other, filled with the order of the day, but still with an undertone of love and an overtone of gratitude. Gratitude, for the thing we had was exceptional and beautiful, one of those little miracles that sometimes simply happens. I know we can’t go back to that time, but I would like to reminiscence.
You weren’t my friend. Not even close. I was your pet, your devotee, your slave even. And I liked it that way. You were a good master. The nature of our relationship was such, that we could never be equals. It was based on the tremendous power you had over me, and my life and the fragile trust I had in you and your kindness. It speaks for you that you never broke that trust. As I said, you were a good master.
But maybe things aren’t supposed to be like that. I loved you. I loved you with all I had and all I was, and you didn’t care. Your kindness was based on a certain good-natured carelessness. In a way you rewarded me for my incessant adoration, but it wasn’t heartfelt. It wasn’t, and I knew, and I know you knew I knew.
Even though the layer of requital was thin and dainty, I was satisfied and happy. A pet well cared for. Now I think of it… Maybe you spoiled me; maybe I became disobedient because of the succulent abundance you had overwhelmed me with. I don’t know. You were a good master, but I was a bad pet. I bit the hand that fed me…
Now I am writing this letter I have to watch out with what I write and whom I blame for what. I am to blame, I know, and a good pet never blames its master for what happens. I loved you. I loved you too much and too deeply, and the superficial layer didn’t satisfy my hunger anymore. The void underneath it though… devoured me.
I love you still… but it is a needy love, not from the heart but from the direful depths of my pitiable soul. I am like a stray dog, emaciated and spindly, growling at anyone who approaches and yet begging for food. I am a pet without a master now, free yet tied by my own incapability to direct myself. I need your commands.
Recent events have made me realize I didn’t just love you. I loved the way you bossed me around, because I can’t boss myself around. Being your slave made me the master of others. Being your servant made me master myself. Does that sound paradoxical? Perhaps it is. There is no freedom without boundary…
I know now I must learn to stand on my own. Maybe one day you’ll open your door and find a hungry stray dog at it begging for a bite of your garbage, but until that day, I will try my best to supply myself.
The world is hard for those who are mentally homeless; you know what I mean. Still, I will wander from opinion to opinion, with no directions but those of the wind, in my face or in my back. It will be cold and lonely at night and tiresome, for the homeless know no rest, but it will be a life. The homeless don’t rest, because they know whenever they sit down, they pick a place over another place, while all places are equal.
I am homeless now, homeless forever, until I end up back at your door. I don’t choose my masters light-heartedly. I am your pet, and consider it a token of my loyalty that no other master will ever rule me. I am rather homeless and free, than bound to someone else than you.
I won’t wait for you, oh no. “I would gladly hit the road, pack up and go if I knew, that one day it would lead me back to you”
And I know.
We're All Mad Inhere 