THIS IS ONE OF MANY LETTERS/WRITINGS MY BROTHER WROTE FOR ME, BUT I NEVER RECEIVED. IT WAS AMONGST HIS DIARIES AND OTHER DOCUMENTS I FOUND AFTER HIS DEATH, HE HAD WRITTEN “NOT SENT” ON IT. IT IS DATED 10 FEB 1994 AND SLOTS IN THE MIDDLE OF THE LAST LETTER HE SENT BUT HE DECIDED NOT TO INCLUDE IT, MAYBE HE FELT IT WAS TOO REVEALING.
Went and saw Brett’s band last night (they’re called Czar by the way). They were quite good, Brett plays the consummate Rock God, and the singer (Lisa) has a really good voice up high, though she needs some work on the lower end. For a first gig it really was excellent, even if the music is a bit light-weight. They came on a bit after ten and played for about forty minutes, so we got home about 11pm, so I’m really tired and miserable today.
I wish I could disappear and not have to deal with people, the hermitage idea is sounding pretty good at the moment. I don’t know why I get so shitty like this, maybe it’s because I saw a whole bunch of people last night that I haven’t seen for a while, and I get sick of putting on a different face for every single one of them, behaving in the way that I know will make them like me the most. I can’t be bothered anymore, and I think just dropping out altogether will be easier than trying to deal with people honestly and just present the one face to all of them. And anyway, who’s to say which is my real face anyway? Maybe I don’t have one, so to speak. Perhaps I’m simply made up entirely of what people want me to be, which would explain why I’m so miserable when I’m by myself, I don’t know how to behave. But if this is true, how would I cope with the hermitage? Perhaps I’m searching this out as the most direct and confronting means of sorting this part of me out. What’s the point? I’m not going to do any of this, I’m never going to do anything. It’s just the way I am and I don’t know why. I’m so fucking miserable.
I really want to be alone and Leah will never understand that. Maybe this is how I can break it off with Leah, tell her that I don’t know who I am, that I’m constantly pandering to what people want of me – to what she wants of me, searching for myself and find that that’s all I am, a collection of different faces for different people, that my sole purpose and make up is to please other people, that these “faces” are all I have, all I’ve ever had, all I ever will have. That I’m to endure like this for the rest of my life, never being honest with anyone, achieving happiness solely through others, being dependent on them for that happiness. Maybe there is no happiness, maybe this is happiness, how I am now, it might not get any better. In the end, is the question worth asking, the answer may be worse than the conditions which led to the question. And now I find that perhaps ignorance truly is bliss.