NEVER SENT LETTER

I could be writing to all of you, but no… I want to write to you. Alone. I know I should keep it simple, send an aseptic message, report on the past months alone, thinking of you only at the distance. Yet the distance is still to be written about. There’s no choice now. The words flow meaningless, weightless, like soap bubbles, bursting as they overcome their barrier of existence. Like something that never was. The place was right. The time could have been right, not it being your time being so wrong. I guess mine was wrong too. Or maybe not. Sometimes it feels confusing that thing… You know. I know it too.

I should keep it clean of meaning, just a report, a raw report of what it has been for me. It wasn’t the doubt, nor the pain or our absence. Something else has kept me here in this place alone. Tonight I feel ready to leave that place. Alone. Yet departure delays on the mumbled, meaningless, weightless, distant, excruciatingly painful words my fingers speak. I don’t want to leave me there, because I know there lay my ash-spreading grounds.

It’s cold inside. I need you there, there in that world we invented. Yet I’m far to believe I would have been ready to live up to what we had that never was. Never was… I wouldn’t remember it as now. I would have infected our world and led it to destruction. I knew it was for the better. You knew that too.

“Too”… “Yeah, me too, but the thing is, you know… Yeah, yeah, me too.” How hard was that? It was easy and clean and simple…but now the little no-pains have turned against me. Was it for the better? See you someday, somewhere? Or everyday, everywhere? We knew it only too well. Our world fades as the distance inflicts us that fierce pain. Were we right to ever create it? Or creating it, were we right to never dare to live in it? Maybe its existence could only be kept by keeping us outside. Maybe it would have self-destroyed as soon as we got into that bubble. Were we right to refuse to destroy it then and keep supporting its distant, vegetative life? Do you know? Were we right?

I’m sorry if I didn’t get there on time. It’s a cultural thing. Maybe not. Maybe that was as right as it could ever be, yet so wrong. Don’t get me wrong. I loved every moment of it. For once I found someone who could see through me and let himself be seen through by me. Yeah, that was our thing. Scary, scar-healing eventually. Reassuring finally. Yeah, that was our thing. For me.

Sorry.