Josh Love

Dear Sage, my boy. Oh good gasping golly, that was exciting! And now, what will you call it? Your blade, your scythe? Dagger or knife? Best friends for life. The murder weapon you keep under your bed, still crusted with the blood, once drenched from your loved ones. Now it's yours to keep secret. Soon that artifact becomes more sacred than the act itself. The bodies, the burning barrel? The silent sweating, shadowed quarrels? It's nothing. They meant nothing. The murder scene itself would never fit under your bed, let it alone as a rule of thumb. What's done is done and how it was done is not as fun as the treasure of the secret that you now house under your bed. Your bloody bunky, your bestest friend. And sometimes you say, "Oh God! What have I done!?" but you know that moment was an act of honesty, maybe the only in your life, and that knife is your savior because it has allowed you to free that inhibition, even as horrible as it was. You were annoyed with the world. You found people absurd. The more you watched them, the more you wanted them dead. Do away with such featherbrained shame. Behind that guilt is a man begging to crow his actions like ribald jokes in a tavern. There is no sorry. There would be nothing without that knife. Sometimes you can hear their voices. Sometimes they matter most to you. Like the people you've killed are happy that you did it. Like you saw God in the memories of their last moments. There's a sexual element to these crimes. Sex, murder, what's the difference, really? It all works up to the grand point of pleasure and then it's over. It becomes addicting. Something to look forward to. Something to practice frequently. People like you do not come from films. It's certainly the other way around. Such is the magic of melancholy, the wounds left from music. And so henceforth your introduction to God. Thank your God, for this. Faith has been restored! And though now you hide inside the belly of the beast, you will no longer fret. You will kiss the feet of your peers and every mother's child's head. It's easy! It's so easy and I profess just how much better it gets. And me - Oh well you don't know me yet. Because of me no one will ever know what you have done. What is inside you. What you've become. Oh and the embarassment. Hold your grin inside like a baby embraced when the families of the deceased will cry their tears and devulge their pitiful mourning. Just remember what you have under your bed. Recollect every dream as you wake above it. And those lovers you itch to scratch as they coddle you. You can't just go around killing people, you'll get too sloppy. Then you think, What have you done!!!??? There's no returning from where you've gone. You rattle yourself with those disgusting fables in the cage you share. You will perish. Yes you will burn. There will be a place for sick fucks like you. There will be a wretched end for a wretch like you. But stop with that guilt. Toil NOT! Take responsibility. You did what is done and really what you ought to have done and you've got to do away with this humility. None of us are saints. You got away with it! Have pride. Have a damn sense of asperity in your expression. Say 'To hell with it!!', whatever it is. Say it like you mean it!!! There is no sorry. There would be nothing without that knife, your queen, your wife. Best friends for life. - Love, your neighbor and trustworthy friend, Raymond L. P.S. Send more letters soon.