Anonymous Coward · 25d
Don’t people look so much more honest in letters? To you, I’m the honestest. I’ve never been good with my words. I fear, actually, that I’m a little too non-verbal, except for my writing, which has always seemed like an escape. If I can’t write, I can’t feel balance, I can’t be free. And when it comes to freedom, I see what you mean when you say that freedom and love are synonyms — I couldn’t agree more. But I’ve been in cages many times, and I’d be lying if I told you that I didn’t make myself comfortable in them. Maybe I’m not a wild thing. I can be comfortable anywhere, even in the worst situations, and I think that’s a defect that bruises me and only me. I do agree with you, also, when you say that some things about me will never be said. Not because I intend to hide myself from the world, much less from you, but because there are some things so deep that even my writing, or my music — my deepest forms of expression — can’t translate yet. I’ve been writing pretty raw these last couple of days, and I still seem to have not reached the bottom. Do we ever get to the bottom, Nora? Or do we always run in circles, chasing our own tails, carrying our leaves in spirals of unsaid words? My leaf is someone who left me, not by choice, many years ago. Even now, it seems like she’s still with me, as I carry our memories around in every beauty I see. Grief can be religious depending on how you hold it. But my leaf is not a burden, can you understand that? I believe carrying the blood of someone you miss so much is almost like having them with you, and that keeps me going in the search for something better, as you said. And no, as an Eastern European, you don’t seem very American to me. You’re way too opinionated — and I say that as a compliment. As I write to you, the rain pours down my window, and I wonder what the weather is like where you are. I do love a thunderstorm, Silver Girl. And I do love the Japanese neon lights. I don’t know about everything, but certainly a lot happens in Tokyo. I hope you can see it someday. Perhaps I could show you some places I’ve been to when I was around. I do have a feeling we would be good trip companions. As for the guilty part… Guess I’ll take the appeal. I have a feeling you might be a rather interesting judge.
I’ve been reading a lot and not much at the same time, as I only read when my head feels perfectly clear enough to enjoy it. Are you aware of a certain vampire, perhaps? His story is mostly told through letters, and maybe that format gave me more inspiration than I thought. But if I could give you a recommendation, if you allow me that much, I’d present you with “Slaughterhouse,” by Yves Olade. That gave me a lot of inspiration for my writing, too. I’m not sure if that romantic, raw, and bruised kind of poetry is your style, but it certainly is mine. I beg your pardon in advance if the recommendation doesn’t suit your taste. I hope, however, that there’s something in it you’ll like.
https://payhip.com/b/RKhp (You can download it for free, the author herself made it possible.)
I’m not a very spiritual guy, but I do hope your wishes come true. Delighted, as usual, and anxiously awaiting your answer.
— Stranger
You are a writer. I still don't know — since all I have for now are your letters — whether you're a good, or a bad one, but truly a writer at heart, without any doubt. I know that because I can tell you choose your words with so much of your soul. I was supposed to tell you that when you said you were able to relate to Paul Varjak, but I was trying to measure my expression so that my thoughts wouldn't become a mess of words. Let me guess. Are you, perhaps, a soft-spoken, unhurried talker, whose fingers catch fire whenever upon a piece of paper? Like me, are you often called quiet when your mind has never been devoid of sound? I, myself, don't think I'll ever reach the bottom of everything I left behind in diary entries and a dry throat, but something tells me that this is the very thing you will always be looking for. Please, correct me if I'm wrong. Oh, stranger... you have no idea how much I can understand that. I allow you to imagine me sighing, loud and clear, when my eyes met that one specific paragraph. Have you ever caught yourself missing your someone so deeply, so excruciatingly, that you can even look at yourself in the mirror with love? I see my father in my bony hands, and in this crooked little thing in my lower teeth. I could never care enough to fix it, but only because it has the same look as his. My eyes, my hair. All the expressions on my face and the horrors inside my head seems like an echo he sent to me long ago. And, I see that, just like you, this is my greatest source of fuel. Some days, it's more like a forest fire than a leaf, and I think you might know exactly what I mean. I'm trying to guess where you're from. I do have a few ideas in my brain, but I haven't decided your origins yet. That sounded funny; like I'm making you from scratch. I'm terribly sorry for that. About traveling and companionship: are you a good driver, stranger? I'm awfully bad behind the wheel, but if you take the lead, I promise I can be very entertaining in the passenger seat, giving the directions and choosing the songs. Is a roadtrip across Japan a thing?! Seems like quite the scenario to me.
Right now, as I write, the rain is also pouring down my window, and I just finished the book you gave me. When I started, it wasn't raining yet, only windy outside, so it felt as though my reading had naturally found the exact place the weather thought it should inhabit. As I understand music is very important to you, I couldn't not share the record that kept me company throughout the whole book. It was Ghosts of the Great Highway by Sun Kil Moon, and I think it was a very nice fit. I don't know if you have listened to it before, but, if you haven't, I hope it becomes as meaningful to you as it is to me. Finally clearing up your doubt, poetry is actually my favorite form of writing, especially when it's romantic, raw, and bruised, as you described. So, yeah... you couldn't have made a better choice. Good, good job. Reading these poems was, by far, the best part of my day, and I can totally understand why you'd feel inspired by her words. I did, too. If you asked me to sum up my thoughts in only one word, I'd say: desperate. This is desperate writing; I feel desperate reading it. My heart made itself audible through every comma and every full stop. And it was amazing. I wish I could show you every passage I highlighted with a neon, purple marker, explaining, word for word, why this or that struck me harder than the others. But, for now, I'd like to share my favorite poem with you. It was Haruspice, and I'll quote my favorite lines, just like I did in the margins:
"I imagine my heart a revolver [...] how, if
there are any miracles left at all it is this: that I am still capable of love. That I can still rest & unrest my finger on the trigger without firing." "[...] everything I touch catches fire straight away." "[...] how I want to live gentle in that space forever, so beautiful & unblemished. Holy as the calf shot open on white stone. Clean dead through the eye & worthy to be devoured. The first meal of some thirsty God: he who does all his hunting for sport." "How I long to be as jealous as gold on his tongue. To listen to my body & take what is offered. To harvest only what is good & burn the rest." "What is your heart if not wine-dark? What is your mouth but the memory of copper, the taste of water in an iron cup?" "[...] destruction became a kind of prayer. How you prayed it every night. The blood of your fathers rising wet from fields of wheat." "I moved a mountain with my wanting. I razed the earth. & still, how when I call to her, she speaks to me."
As usual, I'll let you wonder why. Can you show me your favorite poem and leave me wondering why, too? I'll wait anxiously. Since you shared a piece of prose that's important to you, I'm going to share one that's important to me. My favorite author is Richard Siken, and he just released a new book after many years. I haven't finished it yet — I've only read the first ten pages or so — but I always savor his work slowly. The name is I Do Know Some Things, but I think you should read War of the Foxes. When you said that grief can be religious depending on how you hold it, I thought of him immediately, since it's his (un)favorite theme to write about. Give it a chance when you have the time :)
You can find it here: https://oceanofpdf.com/authors/richard-siken/pdf-epub-war-of-the-foxes-download/
Now, once again, I leave my words in your care, and my curiosity in your hands.
Allowing my codename to settle upon me,
— Silver Girl
