Anonymous Coward · 22d
Before anything, I should give you my deepest apologies for my delay. Fridays are always dizzying for me, and I feel like I wouldn’t be at my best if my words were drunk ramblings. I wouldn’t want to lose my position as your favorite writer, and I must tell you that reading that from you gave me the happiest of thoughts and feelings. But what’s a writer without a muse? Could I be capable of so much honesty if it weren’t for you, Silver Girl? My words come out in letters only for you to read them. I hope it doesn’t upset you to occupy that position. Your words, by the way, will never be too much for me. I can’t seem to get enough of them, as my anxiety only grows deeper every time I write to you.
I hope it doesn’t disappoint you, but my face isn’t in pieces. The Phantom and I share, on the other hand, a passion for music and a muse to guide our poetry. I won’t call you Christine, as I would never wish for you to fear me. And thank God you don’t. As I told you, I only have an urge to know you. And if writing is the best way to do it, that’s a crime I’ll never fail to commit.
I’d be lying if I told you I think my mother watches over me. Not that I’m an unbeliever, but my thoughts never follow that line. I think about her as a static memoir. A collection of fragments that blink through my eyes and my mind, sometimes so vividly that they feel like reality. “The entire world is a dreadful collection of memoranda that she did exist, and that I have lost her,” says Heathcliff, and I share that feeling. I’m deeply terrified of forgetting her, Silver Girl. If anyone asks me what my biggest fear is, I’ll always answer: forgetting. Not for any other reason than my memories of her. They’re my most precious treasures, and I wouldn’t mind being forgotten or alone for the rest of my life as long as I could keep them. I do believe, though, that your father has watched over you your whole life. As I’ve told you, I’m not an unbeliever. My beliefs follow different paths depending on what presents itself before me. If you feel it, I believe you. I truly do, and I say it from the bottom of my heart. Maybe their watch depends on wishing for it. Don’t worry about crossing any lines. I’d never draw them with you. Especially since we’re talking about a missing part we both share. My happiest memory of her is from almost twenty years ago. I was six, or close to it, and we used to have picnics in the forest all the time. That day was no different from any other, except for the fact that we saw a huge wolf. They’re very common where I’m from, and we are not frightened by them. At least, I don’t remember my parents being. She got so excited about it and took so many pictures. Even now, they’re hanging on the walls of my old bedroom, along with the other thousands of pictures she took throughout her life. Can you share your favorite memory of your father with me, too? I’m sure I’ll be delighted by it.
I’ve been using this little piece of plastic with the Post-its glued to it to mark my books. That way, I can carry both things as one, and it reduces my chances of forgetting one of them, as they’re both absolutely essential to my reading. One more boring thing about me: I hate forgetting my things, and I do it more often than I’m proud to admit. Before I leave home, I usually check my pockets and do a mental checklist of what I can’t forget. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t. Your credit-card-marker is as unique as everything about you seems to be. Just like your dream of a ’78 Cadillac Eldorado, which is an excellent choice. Cadillacs are one of the best inventions in automotive history. My passion began with my dad and those oldies. He has this ’65 Ford Mustang that I must have taken apart and put the engine back together a thousand times during my teenage years. But I’m a lover of speed, and the JDM models have my heart. I do have a love for Impalas, too, especially as a Supernatural fan. Too childish, again? I’m just a big fan of any spooky thing I find.
Would you think of me as a sheep, Nora? Or would you think of me as a wolf, with its teeth covered in blood? Which one do you think suits me more? I’d probably describe myself as a dog. A dog who spent too much time on a leash and now doesn’t know how to trust anymore. You’re afraid to take the bones; I’m afraid to surrender. Maybe we’re both afraid of the same things — being petrified, biting someone’s hand out of fear, hurting others. Sometimes I feel like I’ve also forgotten how to touch without cruelty. We all have our needs, indeed. As Silken said, “The enormity of my desire disgusts me.” And as I promised you my honesty, that is how I shall continue. I was once the one who always preferred being hurt instead of hurting. One day, however, I became the one who hurts deeply, just to get what I wanted. Quoting Silken, again, “Why take more than we need? Because we can. […] Something's not right about what I'm doing but I'm still doing it— living in the worst parts, ruining myself. My inner life is a sheet of black glass.” I ended up in a field full of shame, disgusted by my own reflection. But I promise you, I’ve learned to recognize that part of myself. It’s been a long time since I’ve bitten anyone, or even stepped out of line. I don’t like being rude, and I hate being mean. I’m learning to control my thirst, working on my consciousness, as you said. And my gentleness is, almost every time, greater than my need for blood, as it should be, as my mother taught me. But some days, my inner animal takes over me, and I’m nothing but something rotten. Would I disgust you if you saw my unpleasant side? Are you tolerant of freaks, like Christine was with the Phantom’s unpleasant pieces? I’d never ask you for that. To you, I wish to be the best version of myself. My best words, wishes, and thoughts. But with the best comes the truth, and I’d never lie and tell you I’m a perfect man. There’s selfishness attached to me, as there is to any man who’s known love, loss, and many endings. Will I ever see a love that doesn’t wound, Silver Girl? Is it even possible?
I’ve been reading your author (and he’s really, really good, and there’s much I want to discuss with you about his poetry, but I divide my thoughts so I’ll always have something to share with you) as you’ve probably noticed by my quote. You told me you’ve been analyzing my words, and I’d never expect anything different from you. I never thought anything would pass unnoticed by your sharp eyes, and I’ll never condemn you for anything, much less for trying to see me. I’ve told you, Nora, I’m not hiding. I also want to see you, but I think you’re already aware of that.
I already miss reading your words, Silver Girl. Is it wrong for me to say so? I hope I don’t bother you with my rambling. Or my lack of filters. Or my inability to stay quiet when it comes to you. Or the fact that it took me so long to write you back.
I promise I’ll keep trying to be better. And I promise my next letter won’t take so long.
“There isn’t hope. There is a trail. I follow you.”
Your delighted and anxious,
— Stranger.
Dearest stranger, while you were away, I've spent my tedious time thinking about — and trying to understand — why it's so incredibly easy to talk to you. I've wondered if it's the distance. I've wondered if it's, perhaps, the anonymity. And after many, many trains of thought I've traveled down, hoping to get somewhere, my conclusion was direct and clear: the reason is that you have a soul, and it leaks through the imaginary ink. It has been a hell of a long road since the last time I could recognize one, yet your energy stains and paints my blankest canvases. Every trail you leave, I can't help but immediately follow.
I'm not quite used to being a muse, stranger. But I'm going to be honest with you: it's not because I've never been written, painted, photographed, or the inspiration behind a story. It's because I don't feel like the person they're capturing is anywhere close to me. And it's terrifying to be the person behind something that doesn't echo you back. It's terrifying to be the motivation for a paradoxical monologue from someone who accuses themselves of knowing you best. From the accusation to the testimony, they still can't see. They close their eyes and cover their ears with their hands as if my voice were the drums at a metal rock show: repetitive, pattern-driven, hard to ignore, yet still something they insist on trying to. During the past years, I felt that I had to deliver an instruction manual about myself to be read, or teach others to write about me the same way I do, so I got used to being the artist and turning into my own muse. But your words do feel like fragments that have always lived inside my head. So impressively so, in fact, that I questioned whether there's a chance all my thoughts were always meant for you to discuss. I don't like being a muse. Not at all. But the thing is, it doesn't afflict me — not even in the slightest — to be yours.
The human mind can be extremely deceiving, so, for that, I'm so glad you're an artist. I'm so glad you’re able to preserve your memories in a different kind of technicolor — a little static still, yes, but far beyond your imagination through your work. I know how frightening the possibility of forgetting is; it's my biggest fear too. But I like to think your love is so strong that she's alive even in the things that are not about her. I don't know if it's true, but I once heard that the first thing you forget about someone is their eyes. When my father wasn't doing very well, I used to stare at his obsessively, trying to memorize every ounce of the window to his soul. I used to say his eyes reminded me of banana seeds — you know, those tiny black dots in the middle of the fruit. He had something very similar going on around the hazel undertones. Sometimes, I wake up sweating from a nightmare in which I can't remember what they look like anymore. That's probably why I talk so much about him, trying to give him a second life. I'm horrified by the idea of letting him die twice. Anyone who knows me could introduce me by saying: this is Nora, and she loves her father. And I'd be more than satisfied.
Was your mother a photographer, or was she simply passionate about the witchcraft of eternalizing fleeting life? I'd love to see the pictures of the wolf one day, and of anything else she might have believed was worthy of being seen through her lens. I'm almost one hundred percent sure you must have some of the coolest baby pictures ever taken! And I'm crossing my fingers that I get this one right. My favorite memory of my father is difficult to choose. Above everything that connected us from the very start, the greatest force between us was music. Not only his music — he was a musician, I don't think I mentioned that before — but also every tune we bonded over along the way. One thing he kept doing, and I loved with all my heart, was finding a way to slip my name into every possible song. I felt like the most important girl in the world because, come on, how could every song have my name in it? For example, Be My Baby by The Ronettes would become "be my little Janie", and so on. I've always been a creature of the night. I've never been able to fall asleep before two in the morning; maybe it's a character flaw I'll never fix. So he'd spend hours singing songs, or telling stories he made up himself. I don't think he ever even picked up a book to entertain me. He was a wonderful, terrible liar, but I'd laugh so hard at his absurdity that it was the only way I could fall asleep, mostly to the sound of his voice. And now, his songs are all I have left of him.
To avoid forgetting most of my things — as I also normally do — I carry my bags as though I'm going to war. I take everything with me, seriously. There isn't such a thing as an emergency I'm not ready for. I can be exaggerated, but never unprepared. Maybe that says more about my nervous system than I'd like to admit? For sure. But we don't need to get into that. I can totally see why your interest grew from a Mustang, especially if you got to tinker with the engines from an early age. What color is it? And I didn't want to be the first to confess that my thing for Impalas came from Supernatural, but since you were so kind and considerate as to make room for me to admit it, I surely won't mock you for it. I get it. I really do. This is a safe space for anything a little dark and a little twisted.
Indeed, this is a safe space for even you to be a little dark and a little twisted. I still don't know whether the picture of you weighs more heavily on one side of the scale for me. I see blood, I'm not sure about the fangs. I see softness, I'm not sure about surrender. You stand somewhere between sheep and wolf. Perhaps the shepherd, the way you preach your words. As long as you're honest, completely honest, heart on your sleeve and mind in the other, I'll never feel disgusted by your sincerity. "Honest people don't hide their deeds", as it is said in Wuthering Heights. So if you choose, for whatever reason, at any moment, to be unpleasant, unkind, or even at your cruelest, then be it, completely, but only if it's the truth. Once I can see who you are, I beg you not to hide any part of yourself. I wouldn't say I’m exactly tolerant of freaks; I guess my empathy comes from feeling like a freak myself. I understand that human nature is volatile, and I've never had a fixed morality either. Most days, I don't feel like a human being because I'm not allowed to. Most days, I'm my own jailer. I guess that's the main reason I feel suspicious of being a muse. Would you see me for everything that I am, so much more than a concept, failed and broken, and divided into pieces like stardust, and still find me worthy of your words? My moments of splendor are the majority, so would you stop and paint every rusty metal gold? Tell me, stranger. I'm dying to know.
I'm so, so, so happy you get to read the book. I knew you'd find something in Siken to grow attached to, and I can't wait for you to finish it. I'll be wondering which lines you marked in green, and whether, by chance or by destiny, I have the very same lines underlined twice in the copy on my nightstand. Furthermore, I cannot judge you for missing my words, because, given the delay, I understood just how difficult it would have been to live in the last century, waiting several weeks for yours.
P.S: I don't mind — this is far from a complaint — but I know we talk about lots of personal things in public. So, if you'd like to send me your next letter in a more private way, I'll leave my e-mail address on my profile, just for you to find it. You wouldn't need to reveal yourself, but I'll completely understand if you don't want to change anything at all. I'll be expecting your reply here either way.
Anxiously waiting for you to let me know your next step,
— Silver Girl
