Anonymous Coward · 24d
If I’m a good or a bad writer, that’s for the world to judge. But to be judged, we have to be read first, and I have no intention of being split open for judgment. I do not fear it, but I do not search for it. I only write to put things out. I do accept and am interested in your judgment, though. If I’m torturing you with my endless curiosity, I must be open to being judged, questioned, and even ignored by you. I do hope that last one doesn’t happen. I’ve been, indeed, called quiet before. It always seems so wrong, since my mind feels like a pre-industrial-revolution mess almost all of the time. Loud and unorganized. I share your feelings, Silver Girl — I do not know silence. I don’t remember a day when my head was silent. But there’s a long ride between feeling and expressing, speaking and dying. However, when it comes to grief, the line is razor-thin, almost blurry. And some days do feel like a forest fire, almost impossible to go through. Flaming. Heavy. Bruising. There are, on the other hand, glimpses of a complete life, where love gets us so comfortable that all we’re left with are the good memories, spinning in our minds like they’re still our present. I’m happy that you resemble your father so much. I’m happy that you can see him in your own details. I wish I could see my mother through my reflection. I wish, even more, that her eyes could see life through mine. There’s so much I wanted to show her. So many frames I wish were made by her lenses, not mine. But we cannot change the past, much less be prisoners of it. If life is a spiral, I do believe we’re going down, not back.
You never have to apologize to me. If you’re making me from scratch, perhaps it’s because I only come to you in fragments. I hope you don’t mind my different approach. I’m only trying to know you with an honesty that maybe I wouldn’t be able to express face to face. And I must tell you, with no intention of being presumptuous, one more thing that maybe will help you with your image of me. Driving is actually one of the only things in my life I don’t question my skills about. I may sound too childish, but cars were my main reason to go to Japan. A passion I’ve been feeding since I was a little boy. Those engines are magical, and I’m a shallow piece of a man for loving them so much. That said, a road trip is totally possible, and I’d love to have you as my co-pilot. I’m sure your company would fill any place with many interesting opinions, and your songs would delight my ears, as your words do my eyes.
If reading my recommendation was the best part of your day, reading your response was the best part of mine. I’m really glad you enjoyed it. I wouldn’t know how to proceed if you didn’t. Now I know we share much more than a taste for letters, lights, and thunderstorms. I hope we can, one day, discuss every purple line you’ve marked in your copy. My pages almost turned entirely green from so many markings. I love annotating my books, especially sticking those colorful Post-it notes on my favorite pages, hoping I’ll never lose them. I want to keep them always within sight, like everything I love dearly. As for your favorite poem, I can only wonder why that choice. Are my wonders too far away? Are they something you can relate to? I have the feeling that you, for sure, could change anything you touch or look at. Not by burning it, but by seeing it. Truly seeing it, as it deserves to be seen. So hold your fingers strong and far enough from the trigger, as I believe that your silver heart may be able to do so much more than burning what comes close to it.
My favorite poem, by the way, was Beloved, and I’ll transcribe my green-highlighted parts so that you may read me as I’ve read you.
“Every time you touched me I hummed like a lyre, my body taught like a bow ready for violence, waiting for cruelty. […] How I stripped myself bare for you; fell apart like a prayer, in the hands of God. O, I could never explain why there was always this between us: this distance we dare not name. […] After all, you could describe the wound, but never how it made you feel. A sword right between your ribs, and in your hands the colour of blood. In your mouth, the taste of copper. I thought so many things, & never said a single one aloud. I opened and closed for you like confession. I sunk my teeth into anything soft & weak enough to forgive me it. How your skin holds the shape of my mouth like memory. For I could have devoured anything and still have been starving. Longing is so different when you are born hungry. Not everything is a matter of definition. Not everything is a metaphor for something different. Look at all this ruin. How much devastation your hands could create. If you let them. If you could forgive them in the end. […] If Cain invented unkindness, then we were the first to call its name. […] I still can’t touch it gently. You know that I’m a creature of desire: I know nothing but to take & keep taking. So when God asks me about love, I respond with cruelty. I know no other answer, I know no other question. I’m hot steel in the forger’s hands. I know all the ways already that love can be the wound, I want to see, at last, how love can be the healing.”
She was cut so deep that love and violence became synonymous. “A sword right through your ribs.” To her, loving is bruising, and she “waited for violence” every time he touched her because that’s all he ever did. She looked at him like he couldn’t love her any other way than leaving wounds all over her being. Oh, the power our hands carry to destroy if we let them. Can you give something different than what you’ve received for so long? Now look at her, searching for something weak to sink her teeth into, unable to touch gently, unable to fulfill her need to keep taking and taking. Someone who doesn’t know how to love without turning cruel. But she ends it with hope, looking for a love that’s different. Now I leave you to wonder why that one was my choice. Is there hope for your fingers to not pull the trigger, Silver Girl? Is there hope for my hands to touch without wounding? Is there a version of us who won’t be afraid to hurt?
I promise I’ll give you my opinions on your book and your songs as soon as I can. I got so anxious to write back to you, already hoping to read more of you when you answer. Thank you for sharing one of your favorites with me. I’m honored to have the privilege, and I promise I’ll be as kind and attentive as you were to my suggestion. It’s always a pleasure, Silver Girl.
— Stranger.
I could never be a judgmental person, stranger. I'm more of a curious, analytical soul, and I desperately need to question every single thing that has ever landed on this earth. As I've never experienced quietness inside my head, I'm also unable to accept silence as an answer to my doubts. I can't promise that I won't try to analyze every vowel and every consonant you write, waiting for the moment you stumble, but I promise, I really do, that I won't be condemning. My brother says I'm like a roadside dog: I never intend to bite, I'm just afraid to accept the bone. But if my humble opinion has any worth to you, I must say you've been my favorite writer lately — I could never ignore your words.
Sometimes, I feel like I'm writing too much, and I stop, and other times, I feel like I'm writing too little, somehow not enough compared to the sea of thoughts your letters have been making me swim through. I'm still adapting to this digital correspondence thing, and, moreover, to the strange urge to tell you everything. I guess people really do tend to be more honest in letters, like you said before. And it's different, because I'm such a locked room with a broken door; you can usually spy through the crack in the wood, but never completely access what you saw.
So, no, I don't mind the way you decided to make yourself known to me. I'd say you almost remind me of the Phantom of the Opera. I know your skin is probably not falling into pieces, and your face might not look like a bare skull, but you're a masquerade poet, except I'm not really scared of you. Well, that rhymed. I rhyme a lot from time to time, don't I? My mother calls me Shakespeare every time I do that, but it's always mockery, not an intended compliment. Which is perfectly fine. I don't chase her approval either, but can you understand that a place where I'm allowed to write is the best chance of getting to know me for who I am, and not who I try to be?
I wish your mother could see every part of the world you wanted to show her. I'm sure she would love seeing life the way you do. You said you were not much of a spiritual person, but I am, and I truly believe they never really leave our side. However, it is, indeed, a strange, hollow, incomplete feeling. Yesterday I was writing about how weird it is to feel that the only person who knows me in a way nobody else ever will is now a ghost, but even though he couldn't be around to see who I've grown into, I don't feel like he missed anything. I truly think he knows about every single step. And perhaps your mother does, too. I don't want to be invasive or cross a line I know by heart is dangerous, but would you tell me about your favorite memory of your mom? I really, really would love to know more about her.
I wouldn't call you shallow for loving your cars, silly! I'm obsessed with vintage models, but my admiration apparently was never strong enough to make me a good driver. My dream car? A 1978 Cadillac Eldorado. White, or baby blue. I'd be the most insufferable woman in town. I think the 1970 Chevy Impala is pretty cute as well. It seems like something only a special agent from the FBI would pursue. I have a strict — yet messy — system of annotating books. I mark everything I think is relevant purple, and I underline twice what speaks to my heart. Post-it notes usually work as reminders for research, and those sticky bookmarks are my compass to find the right parts. Speaking of bookmarks, can you believe I've been using a credit card? I wish it were aesthetically pleasing, but I'll just take whatever is closest to my hands at the moment.
Being aware of your poem of choice, it is now my turn to wonder. Are you the sheep who had to behave like a wolf? Nature's made killer, aiming for blood while spending eternity dying of thirst? Tell me honestly, would you hurt yourself avoiding to hurt? Oh, the many things life puts us through and makes us feel like animals in distress, whose instinct is either to slaughter or be slaughtered by the gentlest hand. I think you were a consequence, not a written destiny. But your consciousness speaks louder than any of your needs. If I were to be an animal, guided by instinct, as much as I wanted to be aggressive, some big, intimidating beast, I unfortunately function much more like a deer. I react out of fear, and I run like there's no tomorrow. Sometimes I get paralyzed. Perhaps the trigger is always pointing at my own chest, and God, I fucking hate a bounty hunter.
I like to believe there's a place where cruelty won't reign. I like to build this place, brick by brick, day by day, like an architect overseeing the construction. In an ideal world, my only job would be to design, but I realize that, in the adaptation required for survival, I need to put myself to work. You were absolutely right, stranger. I can change anything by seeing it as it is, but do you know how criminal it can be to be seen? I've been sentenced to death more times than I can count. So, for trying to see you, I hope you don't condemn me just as much.
I'm already looking forward to your opinions, but even more to whatever else you'll decide to tell me along the way. Waiting for your words to rescue me from my own,
— Silver Girl
