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Thursday, April 12, 2012

A Letter To No One.

Dear You,

If I was not afraid to say it, I'd tell you that I dream in little pieces, in little secrets that hold me together and my fixed gazes at nothing at all, when even the clatter of hammer and bricks and drills cannot drown the sounds out  - my sounds. And if I was not afraid to tell you, I'd tell you how I cannot stop wondering about the wind because it is nothing at all and I can still almost see it and it takes my breath away. And if I was not afraid of sounding insane, I'd tell you that the colours - the blur of red and blue and silver and even a sudden stroke of yellow - they've come to stay and with grace, because there are some of them that do not go away. And I see them, some of them - the red and the blue and the silver - even in the lazy shades of summer.

Dear friend, you can call upon me when you need me but call, so I know. Because you will look and you will look around and wonder where I am and what I am up to. And I'll be right there, hiding in the warmth of my own thoughts, needing to be called upon and afraid that I will never be. And I could tell you that I look into words like I look into the mirror, and that I taste them again and again, and that I look, I search for the splits like stubborn cracks on dead earth. So I can know. And decide. If they were meant for me or not at all. But I will choose to be silent because I am afraid that you will walk away and never call upon me. And I will feel as if I chased away those calls along with you. And I will be still and take each wonder and take it as my own. For I am of the world, I am of the heavens, I am of destiny - and what will always belong to me is my wonder. Dear friend, no one can take away the wonder from me because I will find it. It will always be there to call upon me. I need not be afraid.

Yes, I need not be afraid. But I afraid I am. Although I have come to accept that what does not come my way was never mine and there is goodness in God's decisions. Sometimes I think destiny is only a matter of where you and I will get - and how we get there will be ours, and only ours to decide. Perhaps there and only there lies the struggle and our choice of choices. And in the end, it does matter. Because no matter what anyone tells me, what ever I may bring upon myself - even the slightest bit of emotion - it is mine to give to myself and take it away as well. I choose to harbour it when it is a part of me, and I choose to be okay when I let go of it. And God? God will give me the strength to hold on to what is right.

You must forgive me for my incoherence, dear friend, because I have wanted to shed some of these words so that they do not weigh me down. If I could paint, I would paint for you a rose, patiently sitting on a  window sill somewhere in the city so that when the rain would die away a little, you could go out in your rain coat and boots with a telling smile and find it, because it would be meant for you. And you would, after searching and searching - a lot of searching - you'd find someone kind enough to open their apartment door and examine you strangely, then burst into a smile. And they'd tell you to walk right in and get what was rightfully yours. Have faith. There are people out there still. Meant for you and me.

Dear friend, there is a page in my notebook that tells me that you and I, we are life's little jars. That life will pour into us a mix of smiles and tears and cries and laughter and red roses and sunshine and it will pour it all in. In different proportions, at different times and different mixtures but we could all be the same size. Jars. And when I find a friend like you, I will pour some of my rainbow-coloured-life-in-a-jar in yours, and we will share and share to live. We will be okay.

I have a lot of hope still. I am infinitely grateful, I am infinitely blessed. And this time, dear friend, truly - I thank you for listening.

Love,
Me.

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