Dear Clay,
It’s been 2 months since the 7-hour struggle, pinning downs, intense sex, and calm talks. Still, I am left wondering whether you are a fallen angel or a mortal sinner. In the 2nd hour of the first night we were together, your confidence could not be matched by mine. The ideals of getting-to-know-each-other stage, the wholesomeness of the courtship, the commitment-before-sex drama – I completely gave them up in the 3rd hour. In the break of dawn, I was humbled with a sense of decay –for being just like you.
There are characters from my favorite novels whom I either love or despise, from mad people who desperately need saving to heroic ones who awaken every single hope in me. There are two that I keep on reading for countless times just to be with them. There’s Clay from the novel Less Than Zero who never fails to bring me to my lowest. A rich kid who only cared about drugs, sex and failed ambitions, he is such a melancholy read. On the other extreme, there is Howard Roark from the novel The Fountainhead. My ideal, my hero, my granite rock.
This year, I was brought face to face with these two. You, Clay, showed me how you can make the world go round with all your wit, looks and material possessions. Your only difference with Clay the character is that he was destined to fail, whereas you are destined to be somebody someday in this world. You showed me how success can go hand in hand with decay. This combination makes your force even harder to reckon with than the fictional Clay.
Several weeks after, Clay, I bumped into Howard Roark one Thursday night. We found ourselves sitting beside each other at the bar area of my favorite drinking place. I was enjoying my beer and minding my own thoughts, and he appeared likewise. When we were finally introduced, I saw Howard the character in him. His chiseled face was how they described it in the book; his stories about lonely travels, like riding the first provincial bus that passes him on the street, would rival mine. His was a survivor's story. And so without agreeing, we kept on meeting in that same spot every Thursday night. We understand - we both long for exaltation.
Sometimes, I think about you, Clay and whether I was right to judge you. There are nights, too, that I think about Howard. I only wrote to you because Howard does not need to know my thoughts. As I have already mentioned, Howard and I understand each other.
You, Clay, and Howard merged fiction and reality for me. You let me experience a complete mix of emotions that only those two characters can provide - decay, madness, hope, exaltation.
In the end, I ran away from you both. The howling night just makes me remember, Clay, that we can never be more than strangers. Do not look for me in that special place, as I won’t for you or Howard. I’d rather keep you in fiction, and myself in reality.
With Great Affection,
J
