-“It’s amazing how easy it is...” It began. I had received his letter a couple of days go, actually the morning after he had stopped by and dented my wife’s new dining room table. It meant that he had sent it before that night. I was afraid it would be some sort of suicide letter.

The envelope had no return address, just my name and my address in his handwriting. The zip code he wrote down was incorrect. The back of the envelope was taped up, it’s what he does, like an elderly person he’s a bit paranoid when it comes to mailing something this personal.

I hadn’t opened until this morning, two days after I had gotten it. I don’t know why, I guess I felt scared about what was inside. I didn’t want to see the words “farewell” or “I’m going to be taking my own life” and have that burden on my shoulders, the burden of having him sitting right beside me and not being able to save him, not even noticing he wanted to be saved.

I had read the letter a couple of times since I’ve opened it, just trying to see if I could enter his mind, if I could see what he was thinking. The first time it had given me a headache, his handwriting is extremely neat but difficult to read. It’s like trying to read a cuneiform scripture from times long passed in a language forgotten or dead.

-“It’s amazing how easy it is, I mean, to surrender all your hopes, your dreams and place them in the hands of a person that, most likely, does not want you here. To them I’m just taking someone else’s place, to them I’m just someone that wants something better, I’m nothing more than a poverty stricken dreamer, a possible terrorist.”

His words filled my head and I could feel them becoming the wallpaper inside my mind. Like a text flashed on a marquee every word had it’s own space and time to be read, it’s own light and shine.

-“I’m tired of it all. I’ve done everything I can and still the situations never change. Even if the sun shines brightly outside, inside my apartment it’s still dark, gloomy, depressing, almost as if all around me was dead or dying.”

I could see words crossed out where he had made mistakes or chosen a –more appropriate term. His words were the letter, he was in the letter, tears, sweat, blood, memories, disappointments, betrayals, everything was there even if he did not talk about it.

-“As you already might know, my time is running out. I can’t stay here forever, I can’t become another statistic of poverty or illicitness, I cannot become someone who couldn’t achieve anything if it wasn’t through someone else’s hands. I already owe too many people too much and I don’t think I could ever repay them. I’m stuck between my principles and the rest of the world.”

He always had his dignity. It could’ve been his downfall or his biggest asset but, most of time, he couldn’t help but notice that it got in the way.

-“I’ll be absent from our talks for a while again. I don’t think I’ll be going away anywhere or running away to try and find something better. I’m going to stay here and think, write and decide what my life is going to be. It’s already hell, I don’t think it could get any worse than it already is. Am I wrong?”

I truly hope your right.