INC:
Dearest friend and companion of mine,
Time slips from between my fingers like the withering crisp of leaves, once green and light. It is the strangest of feelings, to know exactly what you want and not do it, not reach for it, to have the weight of obligation pinning you to your misery. And what a joke it is that I feel an obligation towards what I've grown to despise! To the void, to the nothingness. I wouldn't feel bad for my current life if it had not held me once. I cannot deny the favor, the tolerance; but this life is begging to be put to the ground, echoing its wish through my every sense. It hasn't left a single part of me unviolated with its rejection; I see it turn its face away when I awake, and pretend not to have seen me; I hear its murmur quiet down to silence, as if it put a hand over the music, shushed the attendees of its celebration; I taste ice when I drink wine, and my own mouth when I drink water. I smell the incense they light for the dead when I am in its limp embrace, lifted high above my head, swirled like a spell of purification, and I wonder if it is I who's being rid of the remnants of life, or if it is it that is ashamed of my traces. I touch only my own skin in that embrace, with the hand that is not holding the incense.
I always make the joke that life does not want me to know that there is life within it, or that it exists. Life is upset that I'd seen it, and seen into it, and wanted to see more. Life is…so full of itself.
Perhaps, my arrival to the world had been without announcement, and thus, to this part of life, without welcome; like an unwilling mother with something everyone insists is a gift. I may have gone to visit a friend and entered the home of a neighbor, waiting. I may be a heavy anchor on a small fishing boat, or a fish in a pot of still-water meant for the birds.
To grow in the shape of this life would be to melt into something different under its steady sun, and to cool off with acceptance in its long nights; I simply cannot. I love it, however, and had made sure to love it aplenty while I still could, as much as I had in my malformed deviant capacity; and kept tokens from its pains and vivid pictures of its joys, glowing in orange and made perfect with shade…
Yours literally,
your dearest friend and companion of yours.
________________________
RE:
Most precious distant one,
I was just at the market, buying spices. It is most unfortunate to get yet another one of those letters. I prefer the ones about your discoveries and revelations; they mean much, and are much more relevant to the present moment. Nevertheless, I am eager to comment and jab at your jealousy and -most certainly- your excitement. Perhaps your time isn't full of worth, and that is why it's hard to grasp. Perhaps your life just simply is that dull for your system; I don't dig holes and tunnels when the surface is already prosperous; it takes a lot to digest what is already here! Why such complicated names for simple truths? Your insides aren't drowning in acid; you are hungry, your brain isn't wearing thin; you are tired, your sin isn't escaping through your face; you are crying.
My senses aren't violated by rejection or smothered with obligation; I am willing. I look at life because it is beautiful. I listen to what I deem closest to music, and music. I taste what I crave and what appeals to me. I smell asphalt and grass and lake-water, snow air and car smoke. I feel rain on my face and whatever I choose to hold on my palm. It isn't any less of a weight on this side; it's still new and it will forever be. No one is familiar enough with being alive. It is, however, and since we're already here, worth it.
I believe you. I believe in the rejection of life. I have seen it and thought it unfair, but who has the words to ask “why” to life itself? Who knows the language this big everything speaks and understands? All we can do is wonder, but don't lose yourself to wondering. For all we know, there may be no answer at all; no structure and no pattern; and I know it is hard for you to accept as someone who feels blind without the aid of patterns, lost without the consistent order of all things, without reason. It is who you are, but you are the guest, not the lord, so make do with not knowing.
What has not turned you down ever, if life had? Most people would find this question absurd, and some would answer -if they could- "death"; but not you, and for that you are immensely lucky. You have a home that transcends all, somewhere to return to with your joys and sorrows. I shall not clarify any more, but I shall ask you this: Will you come live in it?
With care,
your forever ally.
(¡Que te derritas en sus corrientes y me des a luz! )
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