A Letter from a 13-year-old Son

[Peredhil]

October 4, 2001

 

9:16 pm.

 

I can hear the crickets chirping. Their soft, melancholy cry reminds me of my own, which lies within. This cry of mine is very complicated and layered. It has a thick lining of pain, which has built up over the years.

 

The cry is quiet now, for all is quiet and my cry relies on its surroundings for adaptation. I don't understand my cry, and it doesn't understand me either.

 

I tell it, "Leave me alone! You are just a mixture of my emotions!"

 

It doesn't care though.

 

But why should it? It doesn't think, it just indulges on its spontaneous whims, and uses my mind and intellect as a host.

 

I've looked for an answer to my problem, but alas, there is none.

 

And so, I learned to deal with it.

 

This is a struggle to do, but this is an eternal struggle which I bear and cannot avoid.

 

But it has its good moments. When it's still, as it is now, it provides me with comfort and the ability to cooperate with myself and others.

 

And so, I lay myself to sleep knowing my soul is at rest.

 

Thanks crickets for your cry.

 

It inspired mine.

 

transcribed by Peredhil

[Ozymandias]

Amazing. One of the most articulate descriptions of inarticulate feeling I've ever read.