Writing #8: A Letter to a Famous WTF.

Dear famous WTF,

I contemplated writing this letter some months ago but dismissed the impulse because there would be no way you’d read this. But I’ve decided that it doesn’t matter, sometime I need to write -for me- to you.

I don’t know you. As someone who hears about you through biased gossip columns, I typically dismiss articles about “he’s fucked up again” and other hyped publications about you. I won’t even pretend to have researched you deeply beyond Wikipedia and IMBD. With all the rumors and articles, I have no sense of who you really are. It’s all distorted, skewed, murky, false.

And yet, I keep getting this urge to write to you.

I’ve exhausted my excuses. I’ve burned my resolution to ignore your “crash and burn”. Something, somehow is tugging my empathy over your predicament, WHATEVER it is.

Because it’s like you’re screaming for help.

I’m not a savior, I don’t think there is anything I can do. But I can’t seem to ignore you as thoroughly as I would like. I shove the magazine away, and articles pop up on my computer screen. I shut the computer off, and there you are on the TV screen. I’m almost hypnotized by your demise.

I wanted to know, I wanted to know what that means, what humiliation looks like, what self-destruction looks like and your face holds it all.

I’m torn between watching you destroy yourself and my innate desire to help people in distress. Because there is something in you that calls to the core of my humanity, so foundational to my schism that I would reach out to you through the 0s and 1s. It’s like you’re screaming for my help without saying a word.

Yes, yes, I am fully aware of how creepy I sound, how I parallel to psychos obsessing over famous people, convinced that they have a “special connection” that they “know you” and want to “save you, keep you safe…” Yadda yadda etc.

I’m no one and nothing. I can’t help you, I don’t know you and there is nothing in me that even connects to you -not even remotely. It’s like we are in separate fucking galaxies.

But you keep disturbing me, every time I happen upon an article, a video, a clip, a fricken Facebook trending post! Why didn’t you retreat to a Buddhist sanctuary and find zen, why didn’t you get a psychiatrist and find some measure of peace?

Why do you torture me with your pain? And why does it bother me so much?

Maybe it’s not you, it’s me. I should learn not to care, flip down the mask and observe stoically. Focus on my own problems and fuck ups. Physician, heal yourself and all that shit.

I can’t do anything for you.

I’ll have to let this go again.

I told myself this morning that I’d focus on my sphere of influence, use my limited power to do some good for others in my life. I can’t save Ukraine, I can’t keep soldiers alive, I can’t bring back the dead, and I can’t feed the starving.

But I’m not going to cripple myself over what I can’t do. I’m focusing on doing what I can in the realm that I am given.

You’re in another dimension. There is nothing I can do but let it go.

Just, please, do something so you are better. Find something that will give you the peace you seek. God, devil, purpose, worthless- hit them all, raw and vicious.

I feel that you’ll die soon.

And I am helpless to do anything except watch.

But if I had the wherewithal, I’d pour you a mug of tea and talk with you. Maybe ask why, assuage my conscience, see the real you for once. I can’t solve it, but at least I’d understand and perhaps be able to do something. Maybe…

Still tenuous. Near or far, I couldn’t stop your plunge, but being closer would only hurt me more than I already do. I’m useless still, every scenario is the same, and nothing I can, could, would, should do would be of any use.

I don’t want to be a witness. I don’t want to see anymore, otherwise I’ll be the one screaming. The abyss is too deep and dark, it would snuff out my fragile candle and we’d both be in the dark.

There are no words or band-aids. You’ve just got to help yourself.

I can’t be your superman.

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