The Words I Never Said // A Collection of Essays

Letter #0 (actually #18) // To you, who I met in July '23

CONTEXT: for years I've been writing letters as a writing exercise. Not wanting to send them to anyone, I would address them all to a "Friend" (not to take all the credit for this idea—pretty sure Charlie from "The Perks of Being A Wallflower" did something similar). 

But this letter (letter #18) is different, which is why I'm starting this book with it. For the first time, I felt I must write to an actual, living person. I've written about specific people in some letters, wanting to address the writings to them, but being too scared to do so openly (like in letters #9, #10, #12, and #13, for example). This is the first letter I ever wished I could actually send.

My dearest Friend,

Now, today, it's easier for me. Yesterday... yesterday was something else. I'm searching for words that would contain all those threads that choked me and slashed me, the idiocy in which I was drowning, the dumbest hopes, and the rudiments of the sweetest euphoria. Absurdity, absurdity, absurdity. Love, love, love. Shit, shit, shit. But art, perhaps.

Remember, some time ago, mostly at the end of last year, I was blabbering something about those reflections of yours that haunted me. Those were more like my own reflections that I would project on those poor innocent people. Now I understand, but it doesn't make things easier. Projecting things like that must reside deep in my bones. Recently I came across one such reflection of yours about which I still think every other moment. Luckily, this time that real person who received this projection of mine didn't disappear after the first few moments of contact and stayed, letting me taste some reality, and recognize where it ends and where my fantasies begin. For the first time ever, I grew keen on the first one and became completely disinterested in the latter. And yet you, my dear Friend, still remained just a concept. Because when I finally found a person whom I wanted to imagine in your place, I began to understand you both differ too much. Forgive me, my dear Friend, the fruit of my imagination; for now, at least in this letter, I will write to the other friend whose concept has support in reality.

So, dear friend, I wish to write to you and my hands shake as they nervously slide over the keyboard. Behold the highest level of my vulnerability, one even my dreams don't dare think of. The truth is I've spent the longest time pondering the reasonings behind our encounter. In the beginning, I was convincing myself it hadn't been an at-first-sight thing, but now I admit it's not quite the case. Actually, there was a "first sight", except that for a while it was suppressed by the grumbling of my persuasive denial. In truth, I had noticed you before you noticed me. And, really, after some lies to myself, confused looks, and shaking my head in disbelief, one morning I gasped and realized I was a tiny metal disc in front of a planet-sized magnet. Don't misunderstand, you were not the magnet. You were like me—a similar little disc—and I could sense your vibrations from the magnet's surface. I know, this metaphor is not scientifically accurate, but so wasn't my experience of you. I had never intended to believe it or let it guide me; over time I simply accepted it as a short bluff that overtook my body and soul, as if I myself was something above the two. With pity, I watched the storming thoughts and let them spin, since I saw no harm in that. I must've let them in so easily and leniently simply because I was sure they were just fantasies. I never would've guessed the immense manifestation potential they held.

Looking at it retrospectively, I'm almost completely sure I manifested you against your own (conscious) will. Forgive me for that. I saw how your head span and how you couldn't get a grasp on so many things. I never intended to unsettle you so much, on the other hand, if this experience had the potential to be harmful in any way, wouldn't the Universe have interfered? My intentions were never ill; I believe this is the reason why we ended up where we are.

My soul is flooded with gratitude. I asked for nothing that you gave me: none of your embraces, no kind words nor gazes, no supportive, friendly gestures were of request. And yet you gave me them all. Back then I thought I provided you with a similar abundance, but looking at it now, I see I didn't tell you enough. Every single day I sent you messages of good karma and wishes of luck, them overflowing from my palms and those metaphysical envelopes, the latter constantly ripping open from the surplus of content. I prayed the Universe to take a part of my luck, of the good karma which I carried into this life, and give it to you since I have plenty, and I'd happily give up my current incredibly exciting life in order to live more simply, peacefully, averagely, if only that meant you'd receive at least a tiny bit more joy and courage. Because I'm already abundant, and for all this time ever since we met I can't wrap my head around how people like you may not even have half of that. And yet you still gave me so much.

I'm not sure whether you believe in fate, but, to be honest, more than once or twice did I wonder if perhaps the Universe, our spirit guides, or some other form of metaphysical being constructed the world in such a way so that we could meet each other. Or, to be more exact, so you could meet me. I'm not sure there's anything I need from you and I don't really care about that. However, I'm absolutely convinced I can give you the infinite. Even if those are not actual material things, I can provide you with such strongly-rooted support, such powerful fuel that no hurricane will ever be able to sweep you off the ground. It doesn't matter if that will suck out the last drops of life juices from me—no, actually, I don't believe that's possible, because every time I see you in happiness, they begin multiplying tenfold. You know, they say nothing in the Universe appears or disappears, but everything simply changes its form, though it seems we came across an exception to this rule: in fact, there's no way this is not an exception, because if this life force and energy I'm generating for you and gifting you were just some remade product of the Universe, the Universe we all knew would not exist anymore and we'd be living in a slightly distorted, but an incredibly genuine junk pit of a Universe that, in its entirety, had passed through the creaking conveyor of my being.

Perhaps here I am unfolding and overflowing in such a bold, unrestricted way mainly because I know you won't selfishly take advantage of it. Perhaps this is only a mirage, but I see you, eyeing me and my energetic creation for you with the utmost sincerity and gratitude. Perhaps I believe this because you never asked me for anything like that, because for you my mere existence was enough.

Yet I am not a homogenous being. Even if this spiritual, creative, giving part of me this time dominates my being, I am also just a human. I am a material, emotional, vulnerable, and striving body. Yes, the former part clearly somehow overtook the latter in this case, however, there have been some purely human things I did that I deeply regret. Forgive me for leaving you countless times to just speculate about who I truly was and for not showing you all sides of me over the limited time we had. Forgive me for staying quiet and not speaking up—believe me, you deserved all of my words. Most of all, forgive me for staying at that metaphysical level while you continued to give me here and now. You always deserved to know how much I actually wanted to give to you as well and for no reason. I can't believe I haven't yet stressed the most crucial point: I don't need anything, absolutely ANYTHING from you. You deserve all of this because you are a human—the kind of human that you are.

You know, at one moment the human in me made me swiftly grab onto you and not let you go. The Universe proclaimed "Enough." while that screechy voice in my head screamed "Not yet!" and I stupidly grasped onto that one small straw whose other end you released very soon. This was the realization I wrestled with yesterday. It was a bizarre feeling: like crazy I was longing for something intangible, something I had never even had. Ultimate imbecility indeed, but oh how it messed with my brain! Admittedly, one moment I had even started to blame you. And for some time I could barely take a glance at the diary of Marcus Aurelius, which stoically sits on my bookshelf and watches me with disappointment. Only this morning did I get up and come back onto the ground, calming the tiny, excited heart of my inner cave person and sitting down to write you a letter. A letter of goodbye? Perhaps... For sure—at least for now.

This is the first letter of many that I wouldn't stop from being sent. Not now, but many years later, when these letters will reach a wider audience of readers, I'd like for you, my friend, to read this and know that this one is for you.

Goodbye or see you later.

— Your loving friend.

(July 29th, 2023)