September 5, 2008
I’ve been way too open with you now and I’ll stop. Because there’s really no point in even sharing this because anything you’d have to say to me, I already know intellectually. So why send this note, really? Where do they go but under some dark paneling? If I could force myself to, I could apply this problem to similar situations from the past and I could say, look, everything obviously turns out fine. More than fine. The fabrics I can’t see follow a certain pattern. No human being could fully know the equation and yet, intuitively, I know it — maybe not its formula, but I do know its nature. I do know that this letter isn’t really about reaching out for a hand, but more of a reaching inward. And why do I constantly think I need someone else for that movement? I don’t. None of us do. God lies when speaking of companionship. I could fly to the highest possible altitude and still, my eyes would fail to scan the complete narrative of my life. But I predict. Daily, I predict. I get up and lie in the bath and see my body change. Some days strong, some days weak. Some thin, some not. I know my body craves touch but that’s nature’s force. I don’t need it. I don’t want it. Yet I need warmth, I want the wetness of lips. Try and give it to yourself. This morning, the gold ring with the pearl on my hand, I thought “God I love her.” And if I was another, I’d kiss that hand and I’d take her up to bed again, to smell her smell like one samples rows of hibiscus. But I can’t. My body is mine and I encompass only this space, only this area, no one else’s. I can’t step outside, even for a moment. There is no perspective but out, and in. Crawling. So no, I won’t send this letter because you’re probably wondering the same thing, today. You’re probably, without knowing it, trying to escape or calculate your own space. Little shell. I wish you were a shell. I’d crawl inside you from time to time just to hear the walls give back my loving sounds. Of course, you’d hold me. Because holding me is creation. My own in you, a light. Can two really be that for each other? No. I will not send this letter. Because in this letter I strip down to nothing and by doing so, I abandon what never could be lost to begin with — my strength, my bodyness all swirling around these rivers between letters, words’ own water-system. My flowing heart. Still, perhaps one day I’ll invite you to drink. But not today. I will not send this. Not even you deserve such honesty.