The Words I Never Said // A Collection of Essays

Letter #1 // Growths, thorns, and shoulders

Dear Friend,

Just as the sun joyfully rose in the morning and then fearfully hid behind a veil of clouds, my newly born hope escaped through my fingers like specks of sand. I thought of standing up on the ground steadily, yet I stumbled. I told myself: "Don't rush it; it takes time to catch up with your soul's flight of thought, for the things you do to acquire the precise reflection of your being." At this moment, all that is left is hope.

Your abstract image often pays a visit to my consciousness, and I begin to ponder what kind of similarities our souls share. Do you also, for years and years at hand, continue being a slave to your thoughts and mental processes? Do you also stand in this segment of life with your legs spread wide apart, one of them placed in an old photo album with yellowish pages, the other – in the unknown, in dreams and calendars dappled with crosses, while deceiving yourself about the nonexistence of a gap in time? Do you also experience not pain, but the remnants of its roots, as if someone had unsuccessfully torn out a growth and its dead particles were still irritating the neurons? Please do not heed my lack of scientific accuracy, for only by using absurdity as my primary tool can I accurately convey the convections turning my insides.

And yet sometimes, it appears that growth has never been removed. It's just that at certain moments, as it gets saturated with fresh, oxygen-rich spring morning air, it is poisoned and falls silent for a bit. I even forget of its existence. Then, a strange emptiness takes upon me. The claws of paradox squeeze my throat, and I suddenly have to admit that life starts not after banishing the darkness but when you welcome the light. Existing as an empty shell is a hundred times worse than being a gangrenous limb.

Thus, I horribly fear emptiness. I wish to welcome rays of sunlight into my heart – and I am doing this little by little – but I don't know their warmth, soft texture, and purity as well as the bending shape, hard surface, and the sting of thorns. Humans are evolutionarily predisposed to lean towards what is already clear and known since this ensures their safety; do you now see what I mean by the "claws of paradox"? We did not evolve to be happy; we evolved to survive, yet happiness is all we ever strive towards.

On the other hand, I cannot claim that the Universe hasn't turned its helm in any direction. I am moving somewhere else than I had been moving towards up until now. It's simply that the change is felt not immediately after the first turn – you have to sail further along. Unfortunately, the ship sails so very slowly. It's so, so incredibly slow. Why can't I make the ship go faster? I steer the helm. But I can't see where that'll bring me. Perhaps I turned the wrong way? Or maybe I didn't turn enough?

Oh, dear Friend, how I wish to dispose of all that burden weighing down my bony shoulders! Yes, they are strong; I know I won't break, but that is not my concern. I just don't want to do it. I dream of going back to a childhood version of me that is in no way like my current self and stubbornly stomping my foot on the ground until the Universe listens to my commands. I do not want to carry this burden. Why am I being forced to be a random person staring at the rocks below, when I am clearly not that?

As I read this, I snicker. I burst out laughing at my own inner discontentment and stubbornness. Through tears, I giggle at my immaturity and negativity. When (or rather if) you were to answer this letter, dear Friend, please, tell the author to grow up. Write her that if she sees herself as so special, she should rise above humanity's impulse to complain and she should take responsibility. May she stop kicking her legs and instead swim with the current, giving all of her heart to believe. May she slough off her deplorable childhood skin and finally start acting like the old soul she is, because, I mean, come on, she finally has the resources to do so. May she stop wincing and rise to the sky. For shoulders can not only carry, but they can also grow wings.

So there's that for today, my Friend. As you can see, I am still continuing my roaming through the labyrinths of my identity, except that this time I managed to grasp their close intertwining with the strands of the Universe. I hope to eventually transform the roaming into a smooth glide. I also hope you're staying steady on your feet. I've been receiving messages that you've been having a difficult time lately; that you've had to suffer, that your heart is being tormented by the same thorns that I so ruthlessly and with no thought about possible health complications am constantly pulling out of mine. I don't know what it is you're dealing with, but I want you to remember that you are never alone. Perhaps we shall meet at some point when the right time comes. I came to terms with it, and I am patiently waiting. I believe. I wish you'd never stop believing as well.

Stay strong.

— Your Friend.

(May 21st, 2020)