Tuesday, January 5, 2016

Dear Marguerite,

     Please forgive me for making this letter part of my art.
I know no other way of showing you how much you meant
to me. You 've always been a part of me. My art is my mind,
my heart, my pain, my memories, it's what I smell, hear,
think and cry about. To exclude you from my art would be
like ripping out a piece of my brain or heart. Your part of
me Marguerite, you've been so for half my life. I can’t let
you go with out trying for the last time. I promise you this
will be the last time I try. I don‘t want you to hate me.
I'm not insane, nor am I ashamed of asking you for your
friendship one last time.

     I don't have many friends and the ones I do have know me
as a good, kind, emotional man, who would always be there
for them. You were my first true friend Marguerite, and I let
you slip away from me, because I was too young to realize
my faults. My shyness and insecurities didn’t know how to tell
you how important you were to me, and when I last saw you I
was devastated. I hated myself for being such a coward. I told
you that I would keep in touch, but my insecurity was too
overwhelming. You meant so much to me, that I thought I
wasn’t good enough to be your friend. Could you ever forgive
me my dear old friend, for not taking your hand in friendship
when it was offered to me again eleven years ago?

     I've been torn apart for the past seventeen years, since we
first said goodbye. You have no idea how hard I tried to forget
you, to rid your memories from my mind, but no matter how
much I tried, I always remembered a little promise I made to
myself seventeen years ago, that there would always be a small
space in my heart, reserved especially for you, until the day I
die. And in that tiny little space is seventeen years of hope, and
waiting, and fear, and loneliness, and pain, that keeps me from
reaching in and ripping it out. Over the years that tiny little
space began to take over the rest of my body. First my heart,
then my mind, and now my body. My body is sick now, my mind
is weak, and my heart has given up hope, and as more and
more blood leaves my body, I feel that small little promise
leaving with it, and it's hard Marguerite, it's hard to hold on
to it, because it means the world to me, and no amount of pain
or illness can ever take it away from me. It’ll be with me till
the day I die.

     My heart has taken over my mind. My mind is fading away.
and all I can see is black, and red, my wrists, my mother
crying, my wife Alba in pain, and my Linda begging for my
forgiveness, but before my eyes close. I want to hear the voice
that kept me alive all these years, and I want her to say.
"Dave, It’s alright I'm here, thanks for loving me, remember
my secret language. I 'II see you in the next life," but then 
I awake, into the nightmare of reality, were pain runs
through my veins, and my veins cry out for relief. But my love
for life is strong, because there is no other; no Gods, no Souls
no ever after, just the universe, with all it's wonders and
injustices, and everyday is a struggle, between pain and no
pain. Between love and insanity, between a seventeen year old
boy, and the man he would become, between a husband and his
wife. Between a friend and his best friend, between you and I.

     I 'm sorry for writing you this letter Marguerite. If I didn’t
my mind would have lost, and my body would have slowly
faded away. I loved you Marguerite. I've loved you for half my
life. You 'II be with me always. Have a beautiful life.

I’ll always be there for you,

David Yanez 
3-11-96  (This letter was never actually mailed for obvious reasons)

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