It is 1:00 am here in Venice. I am stumbling around drunk, a bottle of Bellini in hand. The last time I was here was the first time I tried Bellini. My dear friend Harper insisted I try it, though I’m more of a whiskey guy myself. The sweet cocktail cooled my throat on that scorching day, but tonight each sip is a reminder of what I have lost. 

***

My name is Truman. I have had a life as full as the next. Perhaps, that is the very reason that this feeling of neglect looms over me. You can’t imagine what I’ve been through. I struggle with the idea that nothing really matters, but that’s quiet cliché of me to say. If truly nothing mattered, I strongly believe I wouldn’t even be here. I got to Venice three weeks ago and I’ve been wandering around ever since. I’ve eaten my share of pasta to last me the rest of my long and sad life, and I’ve practically made friends on every corner. 

The truth is, I haven’t always been like this; a cynical man, sipping a bottle of hopelessness, creating work that could touch the saddest of souls. I grew up with hope running through my veins. I grew up thinking a higher power would save me from my troubles, if only I believed hard enough! But, now that I am grown up, I know better. No one is going to save you from your troubles if your life is hard wired that way. Some people are just unlucky, and there’s no way around it. 

***

Harper,

I am writing this letter to you, I hope it finds you well. I won’t lie to you and tell you that my life has been a magnificent journey and that I have found the beauty in everything. I tried to do that for many years, only for hate and evil to be returned back to me. It’s funny that they teach you to always be kind. What’s the point?

I don’t want to burden your life with my antics. But who am I to assume that this letter will even be read at all? 

I’ll write again soon,

Truman

I stuffed the letter into my desk drawer and wandered out of my hotel for the day.

***

I’ve had the same song on repeat all afternoon. My stomach hurts from drinking last night. I was foolishly drunk, but I didn’t care. If you don’t want to be a complete brain dead idiot, just don’t drink. But my gosh, what a terribly boring way to live.

I walk into St. Mark’s Square and find a seat outside one of the restaurants. A band is playing nearby, though you can barely make them out over the voices and noise of all the tourists. Children run around the square, chasing pigeons and gripping cones of gelato. Thought I am 42 years old, I can still feel a ripple of childhood laughter pulse through my veins as one of the pigeons comes and swoops down, wiping the gelato clean out of one child’s hands. 

You know, I’ve had a lot of thoughts running through my head today. I find it intriguing that people do their best work sitting alone, brooding over their eternal misery. I think all the best writers and artists out there are mad. Truly removed from the real world and forced to write about their feelings. And people love that. They love to read about other people’s misery and talk about the artistry behind it all. What artistry? 

It’s now a few minutes past noon, and I’m having an identity crisis. Do I want to be left alone? “A mystery!” they’ll dub me. There is a somewhat romantic notion of being an introvert. The concept of being one that cannot keep up with the world. Venice makes it that much easier.

I want to be that! But I also want to be Superman and save the day. I want to fly over the city and reek of goodness and yell out “JUSTICE” like a complete brainwashed loon. Do you see my struggle?

As I sat there, thinking about my life and thinking about my late friend, Harper, I could feel myself slowly getting more and more still. It was as if the entire world paused for a brief moment, just long enough to allow me to collect my thoughts. The noise around me started to fade away. I was left in complete, momentary silence. Silence is good! But what a terribly neglected concept silence is. Few people understand it. I guess me and silence have a lot in common. I pull out a piece of scratch paper and my pen out of my pocket and start scribbling.

 

Harper,

It’s me again. It’s Truman. I think I’m going to go off the rails. I think this is as good a time as any to completely lose my mind. What do you think? I think everyone has to go crazy once in a while. But I just cannot sit on my ass anymore thinking about the same things. I’ll create a life’s work, maybe. I’ll get into drugs and write about my dreadful life and people will give me a prize for being a loon, but also a complete genius. It’s just that I’ve found that life is quite cruel, and you can have pure intentions and still get stomped on. So I’ve decided to lose myself in cocaine and my own madness and see where it takes me. I need adventure. People are hurtful, Harper, and I hope you don’t meet the kind of people I’ve met. But I know you are strong and you wouldn’t let them get to you. I miss you, Harper. I can still hear you playing Clair De Lune on my piano.

Keep being you,

Truman

You must be wondering who Harper is. She is one of my closest companions. Well, was. Harper sadly passed away about a month ago; car crash.

I had been lucky to call her a friend for many years. I found comfort in knowing I could go to her. I had devoted my life to being her dear friend. I’m sure you have someone like that. But things changed when she got married. 

Harper and I had known each other since we were 5, growing up as neighbors together in New Orleans. We goofed around, maybe too much, and we had a blast doing it. We traveled together for some time, each writing our own books. Harper’s novel “To Kill A Mockingbird” would become a classic of modern American literature. Unfortunately, it’s been almost a year since we’ve spoken. And now she’s gone. Life has a funny way of showing no mercy, even with people like Harper.

Overall, I concluded for the hundredth time that life is completely exhausting and sometimes living is the most tiring thing a person will do. And I really love being alive, it’s quite an extraordinary experience. But it is simultaneously a horrible, punch in the stomach.

***

It is now 3pm. I am completely frustrated with my life. As you may have gathered from my letter, instead of dealing with these never ending problems I seem to have, I’m going to give up. It’s a completely unheroic way of living, but I see no point. 

I looked over at the cathedral. “Saint Mark’s Basilica”, the cathedral church of the Roman Catholic Archdiocese of Venice. A spectacular example of Italian Byzantine architecture. The cathedral soared into the sky, towering over the square. Sitting down in my chair gave it it’s full effect. 

I never believed in God or religion, and it fascinated me that entire cultures were built around an imaginative figure. When I was 14, my mother started bringing me with her to church. I learned about the Bible and Jesus, and was dumbfounded. A whole culture created as a safety net for people to convince themselves that they didn’t have to go through life alone. That there is someone looking out for you, making sure you fulfill your destiny. I believed every word the pastor spoke. My mother was so proud of me, for being a good Christian boy and loving Jesus. That was many years ago. My mother still goes to church every Sunday. She’s 83 and lives with Earl, her new husband. I still have the copy of the Bible she gifted me for my 18th birthday. It lives in my nightstand drawer, collecting dust. Lately, religion seems like a big hoax to me. 

I could go into the backstory of my father, but I’d rather not. I’ll keep it short and tell you that his name was Kent. He was a military man and devoted his life to my mother. When he passed, I was 8 years old. My mother swore she’d never find another man like him. Then Earl came along. Earl and my mother were old friends from grade school. My mother told me she couldn’t believe Earl was still alive. They rekindled their friendship and later married. My mother told me she loves Earl, but I know she keeps a photo of my father under her pillow still.

Perhaps my cynical way of living stemmed from my mother. She never really found what she was looking for, and maybe I am doomed to follow in her footsteps.

***

It’s been 3 weeks since I last wrote Harper a letter, but I have decided to write her one last time. I want to abandon this dreadful life of mine. I’m off to a place where nobody can make life any harder than it already is. Venice has been extraordinarily kind to me, but I need more noise, more distractions. I have my small brown suitcase packed away, and I have tended to my plants one last time before departing. My hotel room is quiet small and quaint, and has served its purpose well. But it is time I move on. For if I stay here any longer, my bones will start to break. 

***

Harper,

This is my last letter for some time. I am realizing it is hard to talk to someone that isn’t really there anymore. You aren’t one to stay in one place for too long. Perhaps we have that in common.

 I don’t understand this pain that I am going through. It seems never ending. I have found that it is a terribly foolish thing to give your heart away to people and things. They will always let you down. And then you are left alone once again realizing, that it truly is just you and yourself. Lately, I have given up on trying to be that positive man that everyone knew me as. Maybe it is considerably weak to give in like this, but my goodness Harper you of all people must understand the concept. You told me you would quit smoking, and here we are three years later, a pack still sitting in your purse I know it. So you must understand when I tell you that this world is much too harsh to face alone. Without your companionship, I seem to have lost myself. I am off in search of a much more vulgar, queer, inspiring life. One to surely never be forgotten. 

I bid you adieu my sweet friend. I’m sure I’ll see you in another life.

Love and light, 

Truman