The Words I Never Said // A Collection of Essays

Letter #8 // Wordsheets filled with transformations

Dear Friend,

Here I'm writing again. As per usual, the first words resemble bags of walnuts being shaken in harsh sweeps. To be more exact, the words are the walnuts that finally fell out of those bags. Because the most excusable form of running from myself is when I'm running towards creating. Then I wrap myself into sheets of meaningless words and no boogeymen can ever reach me. At least for some time.

As I'm writing I'm also putting heavier weights on deeper thoughts and philosophies, hoping all meaninglessness that is cramped on the opposite side will shoot out with recoil. A surplus of thoughts is my new normal, it being simultaneously a blessing and a curse. I'm still learning to filter them and sort them into respective drawers in my brain, which is far from an easy task when they're not some inanimate pages of paper, but slimy or fluffy, squirming creatures. Perhaps by trying to crystallize some I could brighten up my clouded mind.

So, what happened over the past month? Just yesterday I felt I had finally rooted myself into this new form of life, but today I am not so sure. I remind myself: momentary emotions don't reflect the objective reality and whatever state I'm now lingering in, in the end, I've still mastered the river current better compared to the beginning of September. Now I can almost swim. I just have to let myself rest. I must swim conserving my energy. A serious sprint awaits in the future. 

It's insane how many things one can untangle about oneself while in a shifting environment. Suddenly I realize I'm much more introverted in a completely different sense. It takes a mere second for half of my dreams to be sifted out since I now sense them being no more than some rotting fruits of forced societal standards. WAIT! I'll come back later. I feel an irrepressible urge to create something aberrant. 

[...]

What exactly was that aberrant brain fart, I can't recall. But now changes are turning in a totally different direction than I expected them to turn. No, it's not a worse alternative. It's just unforeseen, oddly... pleasant. Unexpected pleasure is uncomfortable because it exceeds the standards set by one's self-worth. The fulfillment I'm turning towards now — the unconditional, self-containing fulfillment, independent of the external — was not the fulfillment I aimed for at the start. I dreamt of contentment earned with sweat and tears, one that pushed me to climb entire mountain ranges barefoot. I never dreamt of... falling in love. Not with a person, not with a thing, not with an abstract concept, but with being. A simple awareness that I'm capable of awareness is enough for butterflies to flutter in my stomach, for my thoughts to blush, and for the anxious part of my soul to go silent. Loving being pays off, since here unrequited love is impossible.

For this evening I had planned to once again transfer to my postapocalyptic universe and continue modeling the torments and adventures of fictional characters, but I don't feel like it. Molding various writings from separate pieces of you is hard when you feel so whole for once. I can only lay these sheets of words, seeing how they're being generated right from the center of my concentrated existence.

Yet there is a part of me that doubts this hypothetical rebirth. I'm not going to condemn this part anymore. The anxious me also plays a crucial role in our wholeness and I'd like her to know this: you matter as well! You don't have to accept this irrational feeling of bliss, this optimism emerging out of nowhere, or my naive love for everything and nothing all at once. I'm not going to force you out of your own skin and into a different one anymore. When the time comes, this wholeness will depend sheerly on your ability to save it from chaos. But for now, don't worry. By loving one day after another, we're not going to perish or fall into an early grave, we're simply going to build the foundation of what we've been desiring for real. We're going to create our home.

Hold on a minute, I'm supposed to be writing a letter to you, dear Friend, not to myself. Forgive me. It's just that I could send this to you, but no postmen ride bikes around my brain's gyri nor throw envelopes into the bottom of the sulci. May this be a message for you too: finally, I am learning not only to live in this flawed reality but also to love it, which means a cardinal change in manifestations for us. So many series of 1s twirling in front of my eyes! Therefore, our encounter is approaching. I'm guessing it'll come sooner than we both can foresee. I can't wait for you to read this. Now it's the year 2021, the 24th of November, nineteen hours and fifty-eight minutes. The highest peak in my healing process. Apparently, I didn't crumble like I feared I would.

I am here.

See you soon. Stay healthy.

— Your Friend.

(November 11th/November 24th, 2021)