N—
what are the imperatives? now, here, if time is a place, then the time is sitting in seat 15E on Frontier Flight 423 to Denver, a flight that was supposed to depart 24 minutes ago. i’ve been collecting numbers in addition to secrets lately and counting them off, one by one, in my head. i think i’m thinking too much about trying not to think. and drinking too much to try and make it happen. i think i’m in over my head. i think if i could choose a time to lose my train of thought, i would choose now, here.
i’ve been wondering all day how much i said over the phone last night. i remember in pieces— your voice, your incessant laugh, talking about the word “incessant.” i remember you telling me all of the things that you remember. i remember telling you i can’t remember a thing. i remember saying your name over and over, and another word too that i can’t remember now (did it start with an R?) i remember counting, in english first, then spanish. i remember you filling in my gaps.
what brought you to me? a softer way to say, again, what i said before: how the hell did we get here? i keep getting softer and softer. i hold my misgivings close to my chest.
until the wild morning, i’m happy just sinking. down and down and down and down and down and down and down and down and down.
i like odd numbers more than even ones. i like odd people more than even ones. you’re an odd one, aren’t you? wait, don’t answer that. it’s a figure of speech known as a rhetorical question. but to answer back, regardless, i’m an odd one too.
take-off, at last.
the amount of strain it’s taking me to hold my pencil steady through the vibration fills me with joy. i wish i had something to chew on (a recent bad habit of mine birthed from a deep-rooted oral fixation and a hint of something blue).
already i think my letter pales in comparison to yours. how to put to words how i felt reading it. how to squeeze an experience into language. how to sift through the pulp.
also, how to rid myself of anaphoras.
to prepare a misunderstanding, i want to speak more clearly—
follow me to a place where distinctions flatten and coalesce. this place is stretched like the surface of millstone grit; it exists both within and without. (aside: you’ll here me say that often, but ultimately it is life that imitates art, isn’t it? this question isn’t a rhetorical one. as in, you can answer if you please).
i’m squinting now, trying to remember a dream. in it, you aren’t every blade of grass holding me up to float, you’re every blade of grass pinning me down. i float still.
i wonder if my writing voice sounds like my out-loud voice (and also whether these voices sound like the one inside my head reading as i’m writing). will you tell me in your next letter to me? in return for the answers i’m about to give you?
n—: what are you afraid of?
a—: looming uncertainties. inevitable inevitabilities. a total loss of control. how much i’m drawn to attaining a total loss of control. i could go on, but this feels like the right place to stop for a breath.
n—: what do you want?
a—: the woman sitting to the left of me to get off her laptop. the screen is too large and too bright and it is bothering me to no end.
n—: what do you really really want?
a—: if you only allowed me one word, that word would be ________. and to be honest, i don’t need any more words than that.
you also asked whether your letter made you seem too insane. to answer, in the words of The Heavy, how you like me now?
i take it back. refuse me my misgivings. if i am a snowglobe and you are the man on whose mantle i sit (above the fireplace, of course), walk over to me, take me in your hands. give me a little shake. watch my flakes spin and fall.
now observe closely. this part is silver and necessary. in order for two people to influence one another, they must fulfill the following pre-requisites:
darkness
discontinuity
__________
tell me— what are you craving? this very moment. don’t think or blink your eyes. tell me the first thing that comes to mind. repeat this exercise first thing every morning. text me your answers.
gosh, reading everything back, tell me honestly— do i ask too much of you? how much is too much? are you at a place in your life where there are limitations? will you let me trace the perimeter of those limitations with my finger? i’ll let you choose the finger.
pinky promise,
a.
p.s. you’re right, there’s no letter without at least one post-script.
p.p.s maybe two.
p.p.p.s. three is excessive but no less sincere.