Dear doctor, I write this to you almost unconsciously, I just woke up, so.. So I treat the steps I do as I treat the hot pepper, neutrally. I wish I could keep this for ever. So I would never put to much care on the things I do, on my stupid thoughts, my heartless days, which are rolling down after each other without a turn, and I am not a good runner to catch one of them, the unluckiest one and slump on it an single moment of happiness. Instead, I often take myself and my undone steps very seriously, I take to much pressure and then fry myself in my head, the head that obviously the world is not needed of. Head that is not really real, its created by stupid me. Now i know right? You will wonder and then ask what kind of connection you could have to this rubbish story( or whatever it is). OK, i’ll answer you. I need nothing from you, nothing but an single advice, that’s all I’m asking for, in a case if I have a right ( you asked me to call you anytime when I have questions, the last time we met, when you checked out my grandma from the hospital, so..I’m not calling you and of course you didn’t mean this but…). You are heart surgeon, you should know the answer, do you?
When I saw you first time,ever I started hating you, yes I did. You may ask why ’cause you didn’t even give a damn about me, nor gave even an single gaze, not an attention. Nothing. You know I just answered your question. That is why I started hating you, cause when I saw you I noticed everything about you, starting from your satin scarf to your glossy shoes, from your angry eyebrows to your rarely seen but such a soft smile. You are opposite of me. That’s why I hated you. i did. you didn’t,but you did not! I hate the fact that for some 60 second meet ups with you made me think about you, forever, again and again, on and on. And it drove me crazy. It drives me crazy,it still does. I write your description so I won’t forget, I spoil your portrait with my talentlessy hand, the hand that adores the art and the art gives no shit about that hand, I ruin and distort your face, I try to draw, but my art ruins you and then I blame myself of not having a right, to do that.
I’ve spent my birthday and whole new year/christmas craziness, thinking only about you, imagining only you and I hate the idea that there’s no one nor nothing to put the blame on. Is the fault in my grandma’s, yours, mine or winter’s, well, no one can tell. In the similar way I will hold the question whether I’ll see you ever again, on the air, dear David. And you cannot imagine how hard it is to exchange the words “doctor”, “you” and “he” to your name, your actual name. Your beautiful name.
Give me an advice, how to silent my heart and how to stop hating myself every time I make myself try to speak pathetic and all the time I do it horribly. Tell me, the heart, is it really not an organ or do I try to seem romantic. You know and I dont. I’m sorry for giving you headache, I always do that to the people… But honestly I wasn’t honest. I still don’t treat my steps neutrally, this stupid letter that I just wrote, I won’t send it to you, ever, do I?