Letter to the Bank #65

Dear Bank Manager and Faceless Entity,

as my cherished and esteemed friend, advisor and punching bag, here I go again. Do I hear a palpable groan? No! Because you’re not there! But you not being there hasn’t stopped me yet.
  
    You could
        argue that
            these are
                in essence
                    rhetorical letters

from:                                                        to:

 —the angel on my left shoulder             the little monster on my right,
 —my better nature                                  the self preservationist,
 —my rights                                             the leftovers you toss my way,
 —the artist                                              the pragmatist,
 —the oyster                                            the walrus,
 —the victim                                            the slaughterhouse,
 —the saint                                              the sinner,
 —the obnoxious child                            the stern patriarch,
 —the liberal/socialist                             the apolitical capitalist,
 —the mortgager                                     the mortgagee

(or is it the other way round?)

Gosh! Wilhelm Albert Włodzimierz Apolinary Kostrowicki, better known as Guillaume Apollinaire, would be proud. He was a French poet, playwright, short story writer, novelist, art critic, and did, if memory serves, enjoy experimenting in his poems with typography!

But where were we? Oh yes! I was pointing my finger at you, quietly screaming from within, and watching, aghast as the finger, like a guided missile, turns in the sky to come hurtling back towards yours truly who did, on your advice, not only invest in a home, but also use the imaginary equity it theoretically offered to buy magical thinking. So here we are, you and I, symbiotically linked in a chain of recrimination and guilt deferral forever more, trapped in a purgatory you seem better able to shunt onto the shoulders of others as you go off to play another eighteen holes, holes in which you’ll sink another eighteen homeowners, so you can pay your club membership dues.

Yours sincerely,

Kristian Witherkay

PS-I will, one day, find a chink in your emotional armor, so you can share the burden of debts unpaid.