Dear You,
I wake up in the morning to feel that I am part of some vintage movie reel, dying while it fades, fades, fades. Fades until someone, an evil grin, a malicious smile, it rips apart the memories, takes the reel and runs with it through evening winds screeching behind it, wanting it back, wanting it back, wanting it back. Oh, I am vintage. Oh, you are vintage. Black and white, black and white. I see you again and again, in black and white, in dimmed colours and distorted sounds; screaming - screeching, loud and clear. And you. You come along and say and say and say. I write and write and write letters I will never send, letters my ink will never know, nor eyes will ever read. Letters of patience and of goodness still trying to breathe through screams, through thumping silence. Thud, thud, thud. Silence. Do you hear it? Vintage as ever can be. You give me words that I could say with beautiful grace and I could twirl around and around and be honest. Completely honest and brutally simple, brutally heartbreaking, brutally beautiful. Just like a vintage movie reel. Oh, you and I are part of it all, part of it all, part of it all.
But no - the later hours of the day arrive and there is a burst of colours. Have I told you again and again and again - that there is sepia and it is wavering. And then the sunshine from the heavens, the sunshine from my present, the colours of the now- the yellow and the bright and the pink - it bursts forth and it is too much for me to take. Madness. Madness in me. Madness in my colours as I try to run and collect them all - the yellow and the bright and the pink - but oh, how the sepia chases me. How the black and white runs after me and corners me and lets me scream while I hand over my colours so it can devour it completely, completely, completely.
Dear friend, so far I have not stopped even once to erase these words or to think over what they are or what I have written, and it feels good. It feels good to not stop, to run free, to be unheard, unread, unheard, unread. It feels good to have fought and fought with myself until I am dying inside of me. No, there is a part of me that dies and comes to life so it fills me completely, every inch of me until I am consumed, consumed. Wasted away, oh how they waste me away. My wonder. Your wonder. How we waste it away.
Dear friend, I am a universe. I have told you. I have. I am a universe and I will never cease to be. You will find me; you will always find me because I am there. I am there while the clouds cry, I am there while the sun shines, I am there while people die and people live; I watch it all until I am a part of it. Until I start living what you and they are living. I am a part of it. I will never leave. No, not completely. You will hear a trace of my words following you around and you will hear me when you won’t. You will see me when you won’t. Oh, yes. That is to be human. To be, to be, to be. To be forever.
Perhaps these are what my thoughts have been as I have let them jumble up and about in my head. Perhaps this is what they’d be like if I ever meant to write them. But I didn’t. I meant to write to you. This is for you.
Thank you for listening.
Love,
Me.
I wake up in the morning to feel that I am part of some vintage movie reel, dying while it fades, fades, fades. Fades until someone, an evil grin, a malicious smile, it rips apart the memories, takes the reel and runs with it through evening winds screeching behind it, wanting it back, wanting it back, wanting it back. Oh, I am vintage. Oh, you are vintage. Black and white, black and white. I see you again and again, in black and white, in dimmed colours and distorted sounds; screaming - screeching, loud and clear. And you. You come along and say and say and say. I write and write and write letters I will never send, letters my ink will never know, nor eyes will ever read. Letters of patience and of goodness still trying to breathe through screams, through thumping silence. Thud, thud, thud. Silence. Do you hear it? Vintage as ever can be. You give me words that I could say with beautiful grace and I could twirl around and around and be honest. Completely honest and brutally simple, brutally heartbreaking, brutally beautiful. Just like a vintage movie reel. Oh, you and I are part of it all, part of it all, part of it all.
But no - the later hours of the day arrive and there is a burst of colours. Have I told you again and again and again - that there is sepia and it is wavering. And then the sunshine from the heavens, the sunshine from my present, the colours of the now- the yellow and the bright and the pink - it bursts forth and it is too much for me to take. Madness. Madness in me. Madness in my colours as I try to run and collect them all - the yellow and the bright and the pink - but oh, how the sepia chases me. How the black and white runs after me and corners me and lets me scream while I hand over my colours so it can devour it completely, completely, completely.
Dear friend, so far I have not stopped even once to erase these words or to think over what they are or what I have written, and it feels good. It feels good to not stop, to run free, to be unheard, unread, unheard, unread. It feels good to have fought and fought with myself until I am dying inside of me. No, there is a part of me that dies and comes to life so it fills me completely, every inch of me until I am consumed, consumed. Wasted away, oh how they waste me away. My wonder. Your wonder. How we waste it away.
Dear friend, I am a universe. I have told you. I have. I am a universe and I will never cease to be. You will find me; you will always find me because I am there. I am there while the clouds cry, I am there while the sun shines, I am there while people die and people live; I watch it all until I am a part of it. Until I start living what you and they are living. I am a part of it. I will never leave. No, not completely. You will hear a trace of my words following you around and you will hear me when you won’t. You will see me when you won’t. Oh, yes. That is to be human. To be, to be, to be. To be forever.
Perhaps these are what my thoughts have been as I have let them jumble up and about in my head. Perhaps this is what they’d be like if I ever meant to write them. But I didn’t. I meant to write to you. This is for you.
Thank you for listening.
Love,
Me.
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