Correspondence 5

(For a newer draft of this letter within the completed series of letters, click here.)

Dear Sophia,

Please forgive the tardiness of my response. I'm sure you can understand the delay when you consider the extent of your criticisms. I am wounded, but I cannot say I did not deserve it. You have me dead to rights and have continued to know me better than myself.

You asked what I wanted specifically. If I were able to tell you that, I would be a rare sort of person. Do you presume to know what it is you want specifically? I can see that frustration and despair follows from not being clear headed on the topic, but what can I do? I have always had a keener sense for what affronts me. I can, for instance, assuredly assert that I do not want to be here. I do not like my lowly position. I have tried and tried and tried to take care of myself, to maneuver and advance--for nothing! I am in a pool of quicksand. I am sinking into the slop of false accusations and disrespect. The ignominy of it all! Have you ever been lambasted by a 'superior'? The only thing superior about him is his paranoia and stupidity! Oh, the conniving bastard! How can it be that power is so haphazardly invested in blockheads! Enough of these ravings. I do not want to court more reproaches.

I confess I feel frail and prone to rambling. I am exhausted by my interior volleys. I was proud, am wretched, and dart between the two sides every minute. In the social sphere, I have fallen--rightfully so. But in my livelihood--here I am an innocent victim. The shame of it all! At least now I do not have to introduce myself as a salesman, not because I'm not one but because no one asks. Why is that the first question out of everyone's mouths? "What do you do?" I do a lot of things. This morning I awoke, made my bed, at breakfast, watered my house plants, dressed, brushed my teeth, and shaved my face. I packed a lunch and drove my car--all before 8 a.m. mind you. "But what do you do?" I am paid to squander my time, if you must know. Isn't that how it always is? How tired I am of all of it.

Am I so conceited, Sophia? I think not and that concerns me. Can self-loathing and hubris coincide in one person to such a degree? I fear the surest sign of a prideful heart is a lack of remorse. How is it that a man can try to do no wrong and yet transgress the boundaries of error often? You do not hold these mistakes against me, merciful creature that you are, and yet I feel as though pinned. Somewhere in my mind I always wanted to love you, but I never succeeded. I am a changed man, a child awakening. Like a child, I am tired and irritable. I cannot carry on with this. I am confounded by what I expected from this correspondence as what I expected from this life. I am sorry for dumping this refuse upon your porch.

Yours,
Alan