Dear Sampson,
Could we ever venture through the woods of uniformity and into the calamity of the open sea which addresses the two of us as envelopes stuffed with love letters; dotted with the picture of skunk and unfortunate cat tales collided in mid-arch, half-and-half together making the whole of cheesy valentines?
I imagine what you’re asking yourself now is what this letter means to you. Or rather why I write to you after it’s been so long and the truth to that answer is I have no clue. Perhaps this is the starting of my most unforgettable battle and tomorrow I will ship of, sword and shield in hand, to battle against the Alba Longa. Perhaps this is my Oath of the Horatii to you, in which I shed my war-mongering facade and pledge true alliance to my one and only king.
Though I don’t believe that king is you Sampson.
No what I wanted to know is how have you been? How has life been treating you? Last I heard you were shipping off to lower Rhode Island to study under an establish artist. I heard the two of you, how could I put this delicately, were the best of friends; that he had granted you space in his gallery and that you had willingly obliged.
I’ve also heard from Charity recently. Do you remember her? Of course you do, the two of you were best of friends were you not? She says it’s been months since she last heard of you; that the last time the two of you met was outside a bar in lower Manhattan while you had been in the city for a spontaneous art showing nearer to down town. She says she was absolutely thrilled to hear that you’ve as she put it, “made it.” in the art world. To be frank, we both were. But she said when she arrived at the gallery at the time you had told her there was no one there; the building was empty, you had burned her.
The whole story’s what prompted me to write you as I know that you’ll be more convinced to answer this letter as you would to read a text message, or reply to me on Facebook. I have a feeling you’re more likely to give this a certain sort of prestige and tear through it as I have the feeling that your isolation from the world is self-imposed and merely a mechanism to distort yourself from the actuality of the situations that transpired over the course of last year.
Sampson my friend, I never left you. That much is clear. I never did anything of the sort. I was surprised to see you even harboring these feelings inside of you—this resentment seemed to spawn from nowhere; I never meant you any harm. Charity feels the same way; she’s been your friend since the two of you met in your freshman year survey course: Classics of World Poetry you remember that don’t you?
What you witnessed that day—Charity was simply confused—as was I, I imagine. It was nothing more than that: a hug and a quick kiss. It meant nothing. We even laughed about it later so I assumed we were good. I can’t fathom what else in life you would feel burdened enough by to run off with some hopped up floozy eccentric artist; I never figured those were your types.
Sampson you were always strong, always someone that made me fear blind rage; someone that made me question the principles by which I had lived for so long. Sampson you were a truly great friend, someone that I’d hate to lose.
So this is my Oath to you: the Oath to Sampson I suppose. You can take it or leave it; you can crumple this paper up and throw it into the trash or out the window but I implore you to read it first. Sampson don’t let your fear of life keep you from living; don’t let your fear of love keep you from loving; but most of all don’t let your fear of you keep you from you.
Sincerely yours,
Henderson.
