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This is my first letter to you in quite awhile. Only because part of me is going mad with thoughts of you. Because I won’t admit to myself there is something in me that still feels connected to you. The only question on my mind: Do I ever cross your mind? Do I really want to know?
I find myself thinking of multiple scenarios of running into you. Staring at you. For the first time since the last time. And in that moment I can’t breathe. I am so still - I don’t exist.
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If I am to be quite honest. And I will be, because that is the intention of all these letters. I have been having reoccurring dreams of you, for months now. But recently within the last three to two months, they are stronger. And they seem to be the same situation but different environments, repeating itself.
Meeting with you. Or you’re looking for me. You just seem to be where I am. Each time I see you, I freeze. I can’t say anything. And I wonder if its because I just don’t want to. I am conflicted.
In this last dream, early this morning. Something was different. When I started to leave, you--in a panic, asked me not to go. So this time, I stayed.
I often wonder about you, though we haven’t talked for quite awhile. The last we spoke, wasn’t the most pleasant of conversation. But somehow I feel you still. And I know the feeling is mutual. But thats all I know. I know nothing else of it. I can’t tell you how I feel because today is different from tomorrow, as it was yesterday. And silence might be our best go at this.
until next time.
“Man lives between the world of silence from which he comes and the world of the other silence to which he goes - the world of death. Human language also lives between these two worlds of silence and is upheld by them. That is why language has a double echo: from the place whence it came and from the place of death.
Language receives innocence, simplicity, and originality from the silence whence it came, but its short duration, its fragility, and the fact that language never entirely corresponds to the things it is describing, come from the second silence, death.”
—Max Picard (trans. Stanley Godwin),
The World of Silence
