As I open my book (a ‘book’ starting with M) to write a letter to my dear father who is now eighty-three years old, I feel my guts sinking in sorrows. Who knows what have caused these sentiments? It could be the dream I had this morning of him leaving me all alone (yet once again). It could be the article I read on the screen about rape and all the rest of ‘politics’. It could be the sudden flash of news popping without warning, in the case of today, being the end of David Bowie (physically only because his music wouldn’t), thanks to the ever-fast, ever-living internet (or, Internet). It could be a series of nameless emotions I am whirled into, each with its images and words, either from my past or from the past of the others. Those recent tsunami of feelings I am experiencing are certainly very different and new. My emotions had certain pace before. They would come but in times such as a long bus ride into the country, while looking out to the window or in the middle of the flock who try to get into the bus with heavy packs. They would arrive without warning but at least I would have been relaxed and solitaire before and after of such melancholic moments. Recently, I am shedding my tears and then, soon before they are fully dried, I would turn on once again, with a different but perhaps all related feelings.
Things of paradoxes make me howl and bawl. A mistake with its real definition cannot be called as a mistake, since we repeat the same mistakes all the time. A love (and/or a lover, indeed) cannot (theoretically) be singular at all except if you were a big braggart. The ideas and concepts float in my mind as definitions, as experiences, and as sounds and colours, of which, until a couple of years ago, I did manage to translate into canvases, words and well, sometimes, at karaoke’s. Now, it seems I am a hot potato in a thin ice. This psychological vulnerability has no excuse at all to show up like that, and I am small like a guilty, a shame and a child objected.
It is important to grow up they say. Simply, it is more important with who we grow up. Until now, I have grown up with the already grown-ups. Those already grown-ups were happy with me because I was to them, some kind of their youth of the past. I was happy with them because I felt like I was grown up (the job done sort of feeling). In reality I did not grow up at all. I grew up because I was different (with the grown-ups). I did not repeat my developments. Finally the need to re-( ) everything has been understood.
A letter is written. (Unfortunately,) I do not remember the first letter I have written. I was wrong in thinking though, that the reason I like letters, is because I can keep them. I thought the meaning rested on the physical materiality of the letters. I have a box of letters at home from the friends and the family throughout my life. I also have lost at least half of the letters at the end of my stay in London. I think the reason of liking letters isn’t actually anything to do with the contents or the actual object but the re-( ) of its actions. We repeat. We call the name of the person we are writing to. Dear.. To my.. Or, simply their names. Then we reappear. We salute each other. We recapitulate some news to share. As if we want to share the life we did not share together. We report which allows replicating the real relation we had before on to the paper. When the relation is renewed and reproduced, we are finally calm and satisfied. These needs to have endless redundancies are mysterious but very necessary. People say that it’s the age of reproduction. I don’t think so. It must have been always necessary. It’s only that now the means have developed to aid our desideratum.
I have some things I don’t know how to say. So, I decide to write a letter. It would be a sort of rehearsal before I gain enough confidence vis-à-vis. It will become a part played in my growing-up. A recital to marked events yet to come in my life. It will be a returning to myself without the cruel and abrupt cries of the moments covered in blood. It will be a refrained emotion in a relation without the needless surplus. I want to be able to leave the cave I am in. Never really too far, because in a way, the cave is also a big part, concerning myself. Just so that I would be able to spread my arms towards the others, especially those who love me and I love.
Surely though, there are certain situations where even letter would not reduplicate the once hopefully relation. In those circumstances, I would only have to pray and desire for them. In those circumstances, I have no other choices but to accidentally die and resurrect. Not forgetting to sincerely say, “I am sorry.”
“In our madness/ We burnt one hundred days/ Time takes time to pass/ And I still hold some ashes to me/ An occasional dream/ And we’d sleep, oh so close/ But not really close our eyes/ ‘Tween the sheets of summer bathed in blue…/ Gently weeping nights/ It was long, long ago and I can’t touch your name”
(David Bowie, An occasional dream)