What good is a letter if you never send it? A very good question.
Well, just as some words are left unsaid, some letters remain at the bottom of a drawer. Because that’s where you’ve hastily stashed them away right after you were done writing. You don’t know what I’m talking about? You’ve never done this before? Good for you. God knows I have.
Here’s one of them.
Did you know that thinking of you still makes me so sad? Sometimes I think it’s because I know that I will never be the one you want to fall asleep and wake up to. I hate the thought, but I suppose there is someone else whose eyes are your very own dawn, your very own dusk; whose taste is the only flavor that doesn’t feel odd or wrong in your mouth.
There’s something else, though, that makes me even sadder: to wonder whether I’ll ever see you again. To think that maybe I won’t is breaking my heart. Over and over again. Of course, there’s nothing original about any of this. It’s a cliché, the size of a billboard. It’s hard to miss. To me, though, it feels painfully unique. Much like an original Van Gogh; like it should be framed and hung up in the Louvre. Or in one of those peculiar cafés that support local artists and always smell funky (that strange mix of stale cigarette smoke, coffee and incense).
It’s strange to think that hearts are broken and the world just goes on and no one gives a shit. Did you know that the average heart beats 100, 000 times in a day? I’ve been wondering how many hearts are broken in a day and whether this means they start beating faster or slower or they just stop altogether and whether any of this is factored into the calculation. I’ve been wondering if it’s possible to break a heart and not even know it. Have you ever wondered about something like this? I think you might not even know that you’re breaking my heart. I really think you don’t.
I never told you: did you know that I’d be happy to simply sit next to you and not say a word? Every now and then, I would catch a glimpse of your eyes or your smile or the way your hands can’t stop talking even when you don’t say a word. It would still break my heart, but it would be a different kind of heartbreak. More bearable. In a way, thinking of you is like listening to a requiem: it pulls apart each and every corner of the soul and yet it’s impossible to stop. It’s so heart-wrenchingly, hopelessly and incomparably beautiful. I keep thinking of you – a silent lament; lacrimosa. Nothing’s ever made me feel so alive and so numb at the same time.
You must think I’m silly or crazy or maybe just a child to think and feel the way I do. Get over it, you might say. I guess that’s the reasonable thing to do. Hopefully, someday I’ll be able to think of you differently. I might simply think of you as that one beautiful and sad and inspiring boy who made me write all these words, hushed songs and love letters (who made me drink and smoke a little too much for a while). If I was an instrument, I could simply think of you as the one who pulled one of my strings, pressed one of my keys and created so much music, by accident. The most beautiful melody, just by accident. Maybe that’s enough. Maybe that’s all you were supposed to do. And maybe I should be thankful for that. Someday I will.
No more ‘I love you’s.
PS: There’s a soundtrack, too. In case you’ve been wondering why I’ve been such a lazy blogger lately: I’ve been dabbling in songwriting, This is what it sounds like (but watch out, the sound quality is quite crappy): https://soundcloud.com/lisa-wer
I have a confession to make.
I am a terrible materialist. There, I said it. I really can’t help it.
This realization didn’t actually strike me when all the glossy ads for toys, perfumes, jewelry and other fancy whatnots started popping up all over the place. Honestly, they don’t appeal to me at all – besides: I can never tell just what product is advertised by several semi-naked people giving me a possibly sexy/mysterious/earnest look. (You tell me. Please?) It wasn’t the beginning of the holiday season that got me. It was the beginning of a season, though – winter.
Here’s what happened: I’ve been digging up favorite scarves and sweaters from the depths of my closet (since it’s winter officially – whatever objections the actual weather might have to the meteorology here). Rummaging through all the wool and the occasional tassel, I found myself having sentimental feelings for the one or other… piece of clothing.
Okay. Possibly, it started even earlier than this: My favorite pair of jeans has been showing (severe) signs of weakness around the knees – which in turn has triggered me displaying severe signs of distress all in all. I hate parting with my favorite pair of jeans because first, I hate jeans shopping. I never find a pair that fits when I’m really in need of one – because semi-naked is never an option for me (I never advertise for anything anyway). Second, I grow sisterhood-of-the-traveling-pants-attached to my jeans. That is SUPER-attached. I wear them until they – quite literally – fall apart. Which is always somewhat awkward when the falling apart happens in public, but oh well: we all get our 15 minutes of fame, right Andy?
But back to the wool and tassels: I don’t have sentimental feelings for each piece of clothing I own. I don’t name them (yet). It’s that some pieces remind me of a person. Or of the place I got them at. Or the time when I bought them. (They’re little time-machines.) It’s that wearing that one sweater, that one scarf or my favorite jeans is like flipping through the pages of a diary. Which, for me, is awfully convenient because I’m terribly inconsistent when it comes to actually writing a diary. (This blog is probably the closest I have ever gotten and will ever get to it.)
So strictly speaking, I’m a memorabiliaist. Or possibly a mnemonicist. There, I said it. I still can’t help it.