Dearest,
On days like today I sit down and start to write. I want to write something good. A sequence of words which matter, which ease, forgive and arouse. Change. Give me strength, maybe even hope. Because being feels sometimes heavy. Today it feels heavy. Being is heavy. Every step, any thought, which excludes, separates from others. Any relation which separates me from my self. I am not aware most of the time. I can not. I need not to. I want to live. I need to live. Not being aware is crucial to my survival. On days like this I don’t want to think about survival, and the weight. I want to be easy. Light. I want to write words which don’t need to be read, and can not be silenced. Words light like an anchor eternally falling. I am terribly tired. I need to cry to close my eyes, to lighten me with a moist darkness. And with words which flow like tears. I want to write something which gives hope, to others. In the end of all days only others can silence me. Only the roar of others can bring me peace. Only we can give us peace. I want to have hope that this is true, that this is worth to believe in. I want to have hope in you today.
I want to lay down my head on the belly of my cat mate, sink into the smooth curring and forget all words, all hope, all what I want. I want to feel love. The one you can find in humility, the one which does not ask for affirmation, the one which just is, and has no word. But the cat doesn’t know words.
Words like the keystroke of a piano or the dead blow of a riot stick.
Words like the brush stroke of colour or the mute gaze of a child.
Words like the lurking red of dusk or the the bomb blast at dawn.
Words like tears which don’t mean anything but a hollow suffering today.
I am waiting despairing and incredulously for a sign, a message. A message with words which save me, extend a hand to kiss or to bite. Anything. Just someone reaching out to me. Stranded on a pile of sand in the desert waiting for letter in a bottle washed ashore, in my lap, so I can embrace it like the most precious finding, like a word which corrects any grinding.
Why I am writing this letter, to myself. In hope I will read and understand, betraying reason, but that there is not only today, and life is rich of chasms. I did fall but not hit its deeps yet. I dare to write these words and therefore might not fall but rise.
Yours.