Open Letter #28


Well, I’m sorry that you can’t listen to Oasis and the fine voices of the Gallagher brothers without thinking of me. Their tunes are biblical—yes, even their B-sides. There’s something about Noel Gallagher’s voice that has the ability to get me out of moods, spiral me into depressive states, and even keep me occupied for weeks… and utterly happy at that. I have no regrets about the amount of time I’ve wasted just sitting down in front of my computer screen and shattering my speakers with his voice.

If the world went to hell, I’d save my Oasis vinyls.

And if you associate them with me, well… I’m not sorry for it. (A part of me is even pleased that I’m in some way linked to one of my favorite bands). When things go bad, some scars are always left. Rot always lingers. Beneath the surface, perhaps, but there nonetheless. And I wholeheartedly wish I didn’t ruin such a wonderful band for you. But with my constant playing of their glorious songs in the background every hour of the day—as I recall, you once told me you were sick of them—I can see how you probably can’t listen to their tunes without thoughts of me popping up and blackening your morning.

I can understand that. I feel the same whenever I see an awkwardly colored alarm clock or inhale the scent of downy fabric softener. Do you know what it’s like to not be able to use Downy anymore? Fucking life wrecking. I swear I try something new every month because I get tired of all these other subpar brands. But that’s my problem now, isn’t it? Breakups are always game changing. Anger lingers, even if sadness doesn’t. And nostalgia’s there, too, ruining more than what we thought possible.

How is it that a simple scent can make me feel like my whole world’s going to crash down on my shoulders? Like I can’t breathe and I have to hunker down with my head buried in my knees because I can’t let anymore pieces of myself go—I’m already missing so many. So, so many.

I know exactly how you feel.

I don’t blame you though. Because that’s my fault. My heart’s a weak, fragile thing that feels too deeply and remembers too clearly. I know that the same courtesy isn’t always extended and everyone thinks differently. But honestly… why should I—or anyone else for that matter—be blamed for the crime of simply having good taste?

—N. Rinth


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