Dear You

(A post via Heather.)

Dear You,
It always make me sad to think of our friendship which was cut off so suddenly. You were gone before I even knew you were going.
It was all out of your control, though. Which makes me feel better and at the same time worse.
I miss you; do you remember me?
I'm sure you do though this all happened two (or was it three?) years ago. It frustrates me that I can google your name and come up with your prestigious family tree, but have no way of contacting you. Probably ever again.
That's the beauty and sorrow of online friendships: they're like signaling with a lantern across a dark abyss and receiving a reply glimmering back at you. Then one day you signal in vain, the only reply is a continued darkness.
Maybe I'm just living in the past but kindred spirits are not a dime a dozen, you know. I miss our messages back and forth, our jokes, our intangible bonding.
Dare I wish for the impossible? I will! I hope our paths cross again someday.
(If I ever make it to France, don't be surprised if I come knocking on your door.)

Much love from your friend,
Me


Now to pass it on - Jade, Kim, Shopgirl, and Ever, I ask you to write a letter to whoever about whatever. It must begin with "Dear you" and you can only use pronouns.
(And any other reader who would like to do this... do it, please! I know I always say that, but gosh... I always feel like I'm probably missing the person who really wanted to do it. Just let me be content in my paranoia, thank you! :P)


Funnily enough, a few days before this tag was passed on to me, I found an unfinished "Dear You" letter I had written a few months earlier. It got lost in a pile of papers (a typical fate!), so I finished it and decided I might as well post it now, along with the other letter.


Dear You,
Whenever I write, I always feel the need to address myself to you.
You, you! It's so ambiguous. You could be male or female. You could be my mother, you could be the dog next door.
Sometimes I'm not even sure who you are. You are my lover, you are my enemy. You are a sonnet, you are prose. You are sufficient; you will never be enough.
But you know... you always know. I can tell you those things I always wanted. Whoever you are, I need you. Because, in writing to you, I feel a little less lonely: you're reading along.
Thank you.

Ever and Ever,
Me


{Painting is 'Woman Writing at a Table' by Thomas Pollock Anshutz.}

a missed connection of minds

He put down the stack of my photographs he'd been flipping through. "I didn't know you were such a good photographer."

I still wouldn't look at him. "That's because you don't know anything about me."

"I know that you are a lonely person."

I look up startled, wondering if my loneliness glistens from my eyes.

He taps the stack of pictures he just put down. "Most of your pictures are of nature. The only photos that contain people are self-portraits or crowd scenes where no one is distinguishable."

Heat sears through me, heat of the indignation that he, of all people, bared the truth so effortlessly.

"You should have been a detective," I snap.

Oh! What makes this way? I never wanted to be a porcupine-heart.

Just leave. I plead in my mind. It's not that I mind his presence so much, though my heart is beating uncomfortably fast, and my limbs feel twice as gangly. I'm just afraid any moment I will burst into tears. I don't want him to see me cry. (Though maybe my heated tears will melt this lump of ice in my throat.)
----------------------------------------------------------

She must hate me. She wants me to leave, I can tell.

Her discomfort is practically radiating from her, maybe that's why I feel so warm.

I shouldn't have stayed. I should have left the moment I saw she was the only person in the empty art room. My mother has always said that I don't know when to give up. That may be true sometimes, but I do know I should give up now.

She's right, I don't know her. But I've never wanted to know someone so much, and to be known. Then I could tell her the something that desperately wants to be said:

"Yes, I surround myself with people and parties. Yes, every moment of my life is stretched to the maximum with gaiety and noise made by myself and other people. And I'm not a photographer so there is no evidence to support this, but... I'm lonely too."
----------------------------------------------------------

I can hear him heading for the door.

(I turn the knob and look back at her taciturn figure.)

I can feel his eyes boring a hole through me. Go on - go on with your wonderful life, leave me and my pathetic self alone.

(Her face is obscured by her dark hair. Perhaps I should...? But I'm just a coward and I open the door.)

The shutting of the door sounds like a soft apology, a sigh of lost opportunity.

Goodbye.

Letters never sent. (Vol. II)

{~Vol. I can be read here, if you're so inclined!~}

Dear Filing Cabinets at the Clinic Where I Volunteer,
You scare me.
Especially the shelves containing SA-ZI.
I don't think you can handle many more files.
If you ever get angry, please do not spill them all on my head.

With apprehension,

Me
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Dear S-- (or the lady who works at the back desk of the aforementioned clinic),
You have the most soothing telephone voice I have ever heard.
Seriously; it's beautiful.

Your admirer,

Me
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Dear Chocolate and Peanut Butter,
You are truly a match made in heaven and your deliciousness is dangerous to me.

Hungrily yours,

Me
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Dear Library,
It's been over 2 months now...
I miss you.
I don't think you really need to be "renovated";
I love you just the way you are!
Don't worry, the other library will never replace you in my heart:
you will always be my Library.
See you next year...

With sadness,

Me
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Dear Perfect Stranger,
I miss you,
or at least the intrigue you brought to my life.
I don't suppose I shall ever know your name now.
It hardly seems fair since you know all three of mine.
Ah, well.

Quixotically yours,

Me
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Dear Muse (AKA "Marjorie"),
Well, I am happy that you have returned, and bearing such lovely gifts too.
It's weeks like these that make me regret how often I express my dislike of you.
I apologize for calling you a "fickle fribbler" the other day,
I meant it in the most affectionate way possible, I assure you.....

Your Dearest Frenemy,

Me
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Darlingest Blog Readers,
HI!
This is just to say I am going on vacation this weekend, starting tonight.
Actually, my dad has no vacation time (new job!!!) so it's a staycation. Meaning, we will be at home for the most part or doing fun things nearby.
But my sister advocated no computer usage (which is a good idea, despite my reluctant participation), so I won't be on here commenting &c. till Tuesday maybe.
Try not to miss me, hehe!

All my love and a little extra,

Me

P.S. I'm not sure you all have any idea how much I love and appreciate each and every one of you! <3

The Stranger?

One day you'll find me dead:
Drowned in an ocean of ink or
Buried under an avalanche of paper.

Then those closest to me will clean out my room and find my secrets
scattered across the floor.

By the book shelf, my fears about becoming frozen and devoid of emotion.
In front of my bedside table, an acknowledgement of how much I cared.
Beside the rocking chair my honest thoughts and views about love.
At the foot of my bed, declarations of love to...?
And at the other end of my bed,
the journals where I recorded many of my darkest moments.
They are confessions of my worst feelings and failures,
Disconsolate prayers to God,
A true look at how far into the depths of despair I have plunged.


And those who loved me most will sit on my floor surrounded by the papers covered in my handwriting and wonder,
"Did we know her? Did we really know her at all?"
I am afraid no one knows me.
I am merely a stranger to them... and to myself.

Well, we all have a face / That we hide away forever / And we take them out and show ourselves / When everyone has gone / Some are satin some are steel / Some are silk and some are leather / They're the faces of the stranger / But we love to try them on
-'The Stranger' lyrics by Billy Joel (from the album I'm holding in the picture)
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Sorry for the somewhat morbid post. The first stanza was inspired by my messy room which always seems to have piles of paper littered everywhere... but then I started thinking what would I happen if someone read all these papers? I realized how startled they would be by the many secrets and hidden thoughts I hold that I've never even given hint of. So, it went downhill from then on. Also, these past few days I have been worried about myself. I've been feeling things, doing things, thinking things that I just don't want to believe is who I am. But I just don't know...

On a happier note, my friend Ever has started a blog called Intractable Whispers. It is a blog to better connect the lovely people of this blogging world. She has asked me to extend the invitation for you all to join. It is a place to share your writings and things that inspire you. If you would like to join go here. I would greatly encourage you to do so, even if you don't know Ever. It would be simply lovely if you did, but no pressure at all. :)

the steadfast tin soldier & other meanderings

Imagine what it must be like to be a music box ballerina. They must live for the time when thoughtless hands open their cages and set their souls free. They can dance! Only for a little while, though… What a terrible fate! I wish a steadfast tin soldier for every one of them.

I would like you to be my steadfast tin soldier. What is a delicate, paper castle to me when I could have someone who understands?
But what will be left of our love in the end? A spangle {burned} and a lump of tin {heart-shaped}, lying a pile of ash. It’s beautiful, isn’t it? But beautiful does not mean happily-ever-after. Sadness is beautiful. {I know that boy agrees with me. I once remarked that “sadness is beautiful” and he agreed. A girl protested. But it’s alright… she just doesn’t know. Don’t you think sadness is beautiful?}


Lately, I have found myself, expressing joy through an impulsive but meaningful medley of songs. I let my voice canter unrestrained as I run around and drape myself across banisters. {As if I was starring in my own musical improvisation.} No one has made me feel this giddy in a long time. It’s all because of you. I wonder if you’ll ever know what you've done to me.

So quickly, it seems, my devotion changed. I am not capricious - not in the least! I am the steadfast, tin soldier to my feather-friends. You will find that loyalty runs steadily through my veins, mixing completely with my blood. But it was time. Time to let go. Time to wake-up from my dream of who that boy is and finally see his reality. I shook his dream from my shoulders and it slithered to the floor like a velvety cape. I hadn’t realized how old and worn the fabric was. I know now. And I haven't felt this free, this content in a long time. This story made have a sad ending, but for now I don't care. Even if all that remains will be...

{1st picture found here, 2nd & 3rd picture taken by me from my book of The Steadfast Tin Soldier by Hans Christian Andersen with illustrations by Angela Barrett. The nail-bitten fingers belong to me...}

Letters never sent.

Dear Library,
I love you. Even though you don't always have the books I want.
<3

Your Devoted Friend,

Me
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Dear Young Man Who Works at My Library,
Why, yes. I was afraid to approach the front desk where you were stationed and ask you if any of my holds were in the back. It's nothing against you personally, I have a slight apprehension of almost all young men. {Don't ask.}
And - I really can form a sentence that doesn't contain the word 'um'; I was nervous!

Sheepishly yours,

Me
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Dear Onion I Chopped for Dinner the Other Night,
Well, I'm glad to know my tear ducts are still in perfect working order.
But, was being that pungent really necessary??

Tearfully yours,

Me
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Dear Very-Pregnant Woman Who Goes to Our New-ish Church,
The first time I saw you, I greatly admired your extremely long, blonde hair.
Why, oh, why did you cut it short and dye it red?

With regret,

Me
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Dear Little Boy Who Sat in Front of Me at the Theater,
I must say, I liked your hat an awful lot! That style is usually worn by old men, but it complemented your 5 year old self quite adorably. {I don't really know your age, of course. But you can't be much older than 5.}

Your Secret Admirer,

Me

I'll be fine.

I cried bitter, self-centered tears because I didn't posses the entrancing ability to write beautifully incomparable things.
I cried pathetic tears because I couldn't find another soul like mine to be my friend.
But at least I have you!

I just wish the selfish thoughts would go away...

{I want you to myself, I don't want to share you with a crowd of admirers so thick they can't be parted.
I don't care if you are more beautiful and talented than I! For then, I can feel pride that you are my friend when others praise you.}

Just know, I'll keep trying to craft delicate missives to send to you.

Though you and the gleaming, spellbinding words that pour out of you could do it better...

I'm trying to be strong and protect you. Your whimsical heart, which deeply feels mysteries others wish to know, has been wounded with harsh realities of a place you've never been.

These wounds run deep. So deep that you and your poet's soul have been fumbling in a darkness that quietly smothers dreams.
And I can only hold your hand and look into your wailing eyes and think, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

But I am certain you will recover, for you were woven with strong fibres. It would take more than this pain to break you.

Me and my cynical soul sit with you as my insecurities cruelly weigh on my mind, leaving deep furrows on my brow.

I don't think I deserve the trusting adoration you give me.
I'm not really worthy of your admiration...
I wish I could be the wonderful person you say I am.



{Photo by: Tony Bonacci. Photo of: Azure Ray.}

To someone whose company I've grown to detest.

I feel like every time we talk we have the same conversation…
Did it ever occur to you that you could be wrong?
You stand there and tell me things as fact. You will hear no one who wishes to disagree with what you “know”.
But, my simple research took your “facts” and stripped them down to what they really were: fables.
I hope someday you’ll learn that fact and opinion are not the same thing. You say you know that… which proves how wrong you can be.
You think of yourself as a mature, logical person. Then why won’t you listen to what I’m saying? Don’t you think a mature, logical person would look at both viewpoints? And realize that perhaps the other person just might know what they’re talking about? Or is that just too incomprehensible for you?
I should have known you would never admit defeat. Foolishly, I dreamed you’d realize your errors. How can you be so sure, so self-complacent in your own knowledge? And you wonder why I’m so irked with you… you just don’t have a clue, do you?
The asininity of you makes me want to scream! You’re wrong. Do you hear me? Wrong.
You can choose to listen or not. I know the truth. It’s a poor comfort but it’s better than nothing.
You are far too opinionated for your own good.

{And I wish I could tell you that...}


{Photo of Sibylle Baier}

Why are apologies hard?

I jumped down your throat.
I'm sorry; I shouldn't have
And I'd like to make it right...
An apology lingers on my lips,
Remorse lurks in my eyes.
But it's hard to speak the words.
What makes apologizing so hard?
Admitting I was wrong?
Baring my heart for another to see?
Or am I unable to be sincere?
Maybe you've even forgotten the incident by now.
But I haven't... so it really doesn't matter.
Peace won't come easy until I've made it right.
But the courage I need is hard to find
And still... I'm not... sure... why...

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I meant to write a happy post about swinging in my backyard... But somehow this wrote itself instead. Maybe I shouldn't say 'somehow' since I know exactly why I chose this subject to write on. *sigh*
But, there's always tomorrow for a happy post!