here we are again.
it's really been a month since we last talked. a lot has happened to me since then, im sure, but the more i think of it, i realize nothing really has changed.
the last time we talked, i talked about what silence meant to me and how meaningful and important every silent moment truly was. how to be human was to be lonely, even when you were surrounded by the people you love. even when you were happy. even when you were full of warmth.
i spent a day yesterday, sitting on the floor with a cup of coffee gone cold, wondering what had come into me as i wrote those words. i doubt this letter would hold the same weight, the same love or the same tenderness i wrote my last words with. this is the first set of words ive written in over a month, the first set of words that i could maybe truly call mine.
(inside of me there is some god who writes words like she breathes but for now she is dormant or perhaps, she never existed. i truly do not know.)
writing is a weary task. it gives me life just as it robs me. just as it gives me a sense of being, it stops me from wanting to ever exist. it is a dreary task, one that oscillates between giving me joy and misery. i write because i want to, because i have to, because it is the only thing that makes sense.
more often than not, i am caught in a riptide. i write and my words are read by someone else. and we find meaning together. but my words are never mine. i have never sat down with them and nurtured them, they have never known their mother.
it is a sad thing, i think. how i read my words and how my words roll off my tongue and i sit back and wonder why i ever wrote them. imposter syndrome, they call it, when you feel like you're wearing someone's clothes and shoes.
the reality is more often than not, we are our worst critics, our worst judges, our worst mentors, our worst teachers. the kindness we instill to others and the people we love is something we do not encourage ourselves. the love we reserve for the people we care for is rarely spared on ourselves.
more often than not, we will find ourselves urging ourselves to move on, to look the other way, to be the bigger person. the kindness we encourage towards one another is rarely given to ourselves; we rarely take the time to sit down with ourselves, to hold ourselves, to openly say, "you have had a hard day. lean on to me."
we have never been able to look at who we are. we have never known the shape of our hands or the way our shoulders sit. we are our worst teachers, our worst critics, our worst admirers. there is so much of us that we cannot see and so much of what we can do that can never truly be understood. especially by ourselves.
it is so easy to admire. i admire so many of my friends so deeply. i admire strangers as i walk home. i admire the people i love. but i have never understood the kindness or love that was ever given to me. i have never understood the weight of their words. it is both a burden, both a present, wrapped with love. and it feels so silly complaining about it because who complains about something as grand and important as love?
the truth is, we all exist. and because we exist and because we have existed, our existence will always be something meaningful. it is something that cannot ever be put down into words. it is something that can never be understood. it is something that cannot ever be defined by anyone, even ourselves. how we choose to live our lives is something different. how we lead them doesn't change how we lived.
do we stop existing when we stop creating, when we don't do something "meaningful"? what is it to have a meaningful existence anyway? if i do not write, does it mean that i did not exist? if there is no one to say my name, does it mean there was no one to say it?
more often than not, i think about the burden of living. of what it means to live, to persist, to continue even when there is so much that hurts. i think often about why i live, why i continue to exist, what my place in the world is. how i can give back when there is so much i've seen and witnessed. i think often about what it means to be human.
i talk often about the weight of living to anyone who wants to hear. i get strange glares in return, i laugh because i understand. it is a beautiful thing to exist and i know it; there is so much we can see, so much we can feel and learn from one another. there is so much we've done even when it feels like we've done nothing. there is so much we've changed, even if we cannot see what has.
it is a wonderful thing to be human and exist just as we are. look at us. look at all the love we give, the things we do. look at how much we care. look at how far we've come. i hope we'll now what it means to be happy, one day. i hope we'll know what it means to be loved.
until next time,
P.S your responses for our last letter was enough to make me cry. the love in your heart makes me feel so warm. thank you for existing just as you are, for keeping your heart so open, for your words, for your photos of the sky; i am with you, always.
P.S.S i did not forget our playlist. i hope you find a song, just for you :-)
P.S.S. howls moving castle by diana wynne jones, no longer human by osamu dazai and all about love by bell hooks (i didn't forget our book recs either)