Letter #4
Dear Nim,
If life comes in the way, how often can we stop it from interrupting our flow? Just because existence feels like it’s ever-flowing doesn’t mean it won’t cut us like a knife, suddenly. The days are long, or so they seem, but they’re dull and boring; the nights stretch on forever, unchanging and equally boring.
Next week, it’ll be more of the same. I’ll be busier, so writing back might slow down—or might not even happen at all. Does that mean anything? I don’t even know why we’re still writing each other anyway. This has to stop, Nim, if you know what I mean. Our souls are attached, but that doesn’t mean we always have to talk, because at some point, we have to move on. Moving on might be the hardest part, but maybe a rain of blessing will fall on us when we forget. Forgetfulness can be a gift; imagine if we never forgot. Imagine if the rain of blessing turned into thunder—would we cry bittersweet tears? But sometimes, nothing is everything. Not talking doesn’t mean anything, because we still know what we meant to each other. People who haven’t seen each other for months or years…
Before the age of the internet and telecommunications, how did people stay connected? How did they live, waiting for a letter that might take forever to arrive, maybe even carried by pigeons? But do we hate patience? Isn’t it both medicine and poison? It’s impossible to remain patient, isn’t it? Maybe that’s why we parted ways. It’s hard enough to make a living in the 21st century, any kind of living. It’s hard enough just to stay alive, surviving on opioids and the singular hope that drugs might be a narrow pathway to some happiness. What kind of happiness, though? Oh, Nim, what a fucking life! I wish childhood would come back, and we could play like innocents, building castles in the sky we’ll never reach. Or maybe you and I, if we stayed kids, could build a treehouse no one else would know about. They’d think we’re crazy, but we’d turn away and smile, knowing who the truly crazy ones are. The existence for pure emotional satisfaction.
Nim, continue your travels; I think you’re playing it right. Your travels don’t need an ultimate destination, but time is running out, and a turning point will carry us somewhere. Continue to some place. I want to hear your music, the purest voice like a nightingale. The rhythm of your words. I hear screaming when you’re whispering. Your songs are reverberations of you, your agony, your anger, your lost love (that is me). Will love find its way back to you through music, allowing you to forget what once was? When will your travels come to a halt… will they… will the journey ever be… Is the crown not the destination?
Mei