Dossier of Unsent Letters

Or unreceiving recipients, rather. All before and after are the letters themselves; these, here, are the names on the unstamped, unaddressed, unsealed envelopes. I have no business sealing up what still flows freely.
This is meant as a clarification of sorts, because it was asked of me. And by clarification, of course, I mean a different sort of dust. The following are the most persistently written. I think.

You--are a brown haired, one horned boy. The most prevalent and infectious. Your image has been drawn from several places and has taken over several others. You are everywhere now, even in the way I write--my z's are half you, half another. So infectious. You are not greater than the game; but you have been quite the player, whether you were aware of it or not. I am absolutely tortured by the question of whether you were aware of it or not. You couldn't--how preposterous. How ridiculous. How obscene. But the way you touch grass--God, I felt lewd just watching it. And I'm not using grass as a metaphor for anything. When I say grass, I mean grass.

You--are brown-haired but unhorned. You resist that attachment, and are perpetually estranged to me for it. You are three times more monstrous than anything I could create. You are so contradictorily composed. And that phrase is too familiar to me. I have used it before. You are my worst enemy, because a part of you is quite like me. And I am vain; so that is a compliment. And I am self critical; so that is an insult.

You--are a long armed goat man, brown and orange. You are washed in regret--mine, not yours, and not very thick at that. A wash is never thick when painting. You are one of the liveliest and loveliest of persons I have ever had the pleasure to know. Know? I know very little about you, really. Sometimes, I believe you were my vain side.

You--are Julia.

You--are an endless transformation of skin. Frustration in the corner of my eye. Of your eye? I want to know more; I want to yell. I wouldn't mind if you did either of these things as well. But you don't--you don't appear to do anything at all. But I am so certain that you do that it is infuriating. I become very aware of how narcissistic I am around (but are you ever around?) you. I feel like throwing chunks of paper at you. I want to make you move, live live live, but the problem is that you already do--outside of this. And that makes me fussy.

You--are split-tongued and largely unwritten about. Which isn't to say you will not be written about. But I suspect you will not be, not for a time, at least. I couldn't say. Even tonight, I couldn't say. I am so eager to write you, and you do not resist--you elude. I do not know what to make of you. I do not want to make anything of you. In fact, I .... ... .. .... ......... .. ..--please.

You--are black-lipped and grinning and have never died and will never die because I will save you I will write you I will keep you grinning forever and feed your troubles to the birds--let those twittering spits bear the weight. I can do this much for you, at least. I will do this much for you.

You-- are a red fish, one that bothers and agitates my mirror, because you will not reflect, you will not reflect. You are peculiar. You think because you are on the other side of the mirror, you can play with whatever you choose--but then, why can things not play with you? Whether you allow it or not, sweet fish, I will play with you; you are allowed your games, and I am allowed mine. Don't worry--I don't mean anything in earnest. You may, but I don't. I hope you don't hate me for it, because I still love you by it. I say these things only because I am comfortable with and quite fond of you.

You--are all mixed together in my head. All of you: all yous. I am always comparing you. Not in degrees or numbers, not in some gladiator ring or collector's box. I compare because it is how best I may come to know you, know what I know of you, know myself through you. What does one do that the other doesn't? And why? And where do the roots of these strange snarling things push up from? Why, when two are similar, am I comfortable around one, angry around another, and mythologizing a third? It is like discerning the parts and particles to a foreign language. Why does this go here and here but not there? I am always wondering about you.

And this, too, is like an unsent letter; there is no address, no name, no envelope at all. It is a book; a record. But I have left it in such a place that, without sending it, it may be received. These letters, they are much further from those they are intended for. Here, they are out of the searching scope of those who they are addressed to; they are even more unsent than this dossier. But they are here; they do exist. And so they may be found, like that one book in The Library that holds everything you desire, and not a single typo to boot. And so I will call these unsent letters, because I will not send a single one of them--but that does not mean I am entirely opposed to them being found.