One more day

The only way out is through,
I tell myself over and over,
trying to drill the fact into my brain.
The only way out is through,
I say as I soldier on,
one foot in front of the other;
one more year, one more month,
one more week, one more day.
One more day.
One more day.
The pile I carry on my back gets bigger, heavier
it gets more insistent, more demanding,
it shifts and stretches
until I no longer just carry it,
my whole existence is controlled by it,
it shifts and stretches,
I recoil and drawback until I'm no longer my own
One more day.
One more day.
If anything I've become a phantom
pulled around by a thread that only gets thinner,
an empty shell of a person who used to be something
but no longer is.
The incessant thoughts in my head keep pushing and pulling,
they swarm around me like ravenous animals,
waiting for their prey,
like waves breaking on the shore,
they never stop.
I move in the world precariously,
the simplest things have become incomprehensible,
words and sentiments go through me,
unfathomable and distant.
I've become fluent in ways to desensitize myself,
my drawers and cupboards are always full,
with one substance or another,
as long as my mind is numb.
Bitterness comes easy
when all I can think of is
the years stolen from me,
the days I've spent confined and silenced,
Breathing, on the other hand, is not an easy feat
when claustrophobia looms over me,
like a heavy concrete cage,
in the most open spaces.
My body shuts down,
my lungs threaten to collapse,
"if we don't get out soon we're doomed",
they both declare.
One more day.
One more day.
I tell myself,
the only way out is through.

To Tom (9)

I'd say that this is one of my less graceful letters and it's also one I've been too scared to write. I guess you do get braver as time goes by. I've always avoided using the word lonely in any letter, any conversation; I tiptoe by the word cautiously, circle around it like a potential threat, I make sure never to use it as a description of myself. If you get to close, it bites. Don't get me wrong, I'm not really scared of loneliness; I've known lonely, I've been lonely, I lay down my weapons and sleep next to it every night, it doesn't scare me. It doesn't scare me as long as it's unpronounced, because saying it is an open and public declaration that I "need" someone and that is a place of vulnerability I absolutely refuse to step into. I know you frown on my constant flight from vulnerability and I know you think of me as too proud. Maybe I am. Believe me, Tom, I've tried to be like you; open, vulnerable, graceful even in turmoil, but I'm not built like that. I'm built for the graceless disarrayed quiet. The one you brush by, scrunch your nose at and never stay. You hold your breath until you're well out of sight, then you breathe right again. I know you can see through me so I won't tell you I've made my peace with it. I haven't really made peace with anything, but I repeat like a mantra, over and over again, trying to manifest it into existence. "That which we manifest is before us", I tell myself through the disquiet. That which we manifest is before us. Hoping it's true. Hoping I can be light. If one thing remains ceaseless, it's that I look to you for the light I do not have within me. And it perseveres.

Yours always,

To Ada,

I'm still hung up on our last conversation. I've accepted the fact that love doesn't really make sense a long time ago; there's no science behind it, no rationale. I think I've tried it all; sheer pragmatism where one plus one must equal two, where everything is measured, precise, calculated to the last bit, but I've realized that I can't be a pragmatic lover. I've realized I'm not a romantic either (I can see you shaking your head in disapproval, we'll see eventually). I'm not quite sure which part of the scale I fit on. Now that I think of it, I don't really mind not knowing.  I've been the classic cliche of waiting for love and you know it, but I think I've been going about it all wrong. I've tried waiting, chasing, not wanting, pretending to not want it, the whole bunch. It obviously hasn't worked, and a year ago that would have caused me a great deal of distress. Now I think of it with much more ease, and maybe I've learned that from her. Braver, a bit softer, and more open. That's what I'm trying to be for the time being, and it's partly why I'm writing to you at the moment. I'm letting go of any preconceived notion I've ever had of love, if it comes, I'll try to embrace it (we both know I have trouble with that), and if it doesn't, I'll still witness it everywhere around me, and embrace the beauty of it, and the absolute chaos. Write to me, I really enjoy our conversations. I hope love adorns you soon.

Yours always,

To Tom (8)

Do you ever think about how mesmerizing and ever so scary a pause is? A pause, yes. I know what you're thinking, I am getting too caught up in minute things all over again, but hear me out. You know when you're about to get bad news? There's always this pause that says something horrible is about to come; and if you think about it, this fraction of a minute of silence is always more excruciating than whatever horrifying thing you're about to hear next. I've been directing a lot of my attention towards language lately and I've realized it's not just the words that make up a language. A smile, a shrug, a blink, or two, or a _pause_ are sometimes more weighty than a whole dictionary. Do you ever think about what it means? And how much this space one chose me to leave empty weighs? It's always this pause before someone decides to say I love you, or the pause before they say I am sorry, or the pause after they say "I love you, but.." Time stretches into infinity and seconds move like lumbering boulders, unbearably heavy, unbearably slow. Your pauses always scared me most, when you paused I always had this urge to take your brain out and dissect it, I wanted so badly to know what's on your mind because your silence always scared me. I knew you, _I know you_. Your mind is never at ease, it's always grinding, going back and forth, every word means something, the smallest gesture to you is bigger than the universe and that terrified me. Still, I'd take any silence of yours, any pause over a thousand words that anyone else has to say. Write to me sometimes? It's not just silence that's excruciating, I miss you.

Yours always,

To Nick (2)

Someone was talking to me about being in love with life, and I remembered you. I think I've been falling back in love a little with life lately, but I hadn't realized that until that person told me. She said it with a passion I rarely see with anyone, and it's the kind of passion that's contagious. When you light a firework, there's always this tiny spark that jumps out first before it's actually afire; that's how I felt then; like this tiny spark has jumped out, grabbed me, and ignited me. What struck me is that it's not anything grand; it's not about how the stars align, or the beautiful sunsets, or even being in love with a person. She said it comes to her in the mundanest of moments, like listening to a song with someone in the car. You don't necessarily like the song, it's actually a really bad song, but you're alive, and the person next to you is alive and it all feels into place. Years later, you'd look back and remember that one bad song in a car with someone you love. It's enticing and awe-inspiring. Life is still one huge mystery to me; it's excruciating and tender, it's beautiful and gruesome. And I am not here to contemplate it. However, I believe that in between all of those moments, those tiny flashes of time, there's this one spark that grabs you and compels you to fall in love with it. I've been getting a lot of those lately despite the uncertainty. It seems so unfamiliar, like something so distant, perhaps that's why I did not realize it. It still fills me with so much gratitude and serenity, and I thought that I'd like to keep this, as a reminder maybe, that it's not all bad, it's not all excruciatingly gruesome or lonely or confusing, even if it's something as short and fleeting as a moment, I'd still like to hold on to it. That's why I came to you, please keep this for me, and for you. Let this be our "Hey Jude".

Yours always,

To Tom (7)

Mama, take this badge off from me
I can't use it anymore
It's getting dark, much too dark to see
Feel I'm knockin' on heaven's door

Dear Tom,
It pains me to write this, it pains me both physically and emotionally. What follows is not going to be pleasant to read (and believe me it's the farthest thing from pleasant to write) so forgive the mess. I am trying to blurt it out before I lose the small bit of bravery I have right now.
I have so much to say, and I am not sure exactly how to articulate. I am merely writing this for documentation's sake, I haven't been writing for the sake of writing since forever and just the thought of it makes me sick to the bone. It brings me so much shame, and you're the only one I can open myself up to.
Shame. An emotion that has become too familiar,  I know every twist, every turn, because the road always leads me there. I am so ashamed of myself,  I get sick of the skin I am wearing and of everything that goes on within. I am just... tired. Yesterday I accidentally cut myself and I reveled in the pain, like I deserved it. I've been thinking about it a lot lately, hurting myself, my fingers itching to claw at the skin where my veins rest, my knuckles straining under the weight of me denying them the right to inflict pain on the body that holds them. I thought it was a moment's thought, that it will just go away when I am calmer, but I don't trust myself anymore.
I almost crashed my car today, my head was buzzing with thoughts I couldn't drown out even with the music at maximum. Everything was a haze and I couldn't help myself, I almost did it. I wanted the crash, I wanted my bones to ache and then I wanted it all to stop. Cease. But I didn't. I am anchored and it's the only thing that's keeping me here and it makes me so angry. So angry because I want everyone anchoring me to just let me go, I do not want to think of anyone's pain, and I want mine to cease. Anger. I never thought I'd have so much anger; it's like everything I've been feeling has hardened and just turned angry.

There's a ghost on the horizon
When I go to bed
How can I fall asleep at night
How will I rest my head?

My mom told me I lost so much weight I look like a ghost, I smile sarcastically, I don't tell her that for six days the only meal I had was breakfast. I am not sleeping much either, the nights stretch agonizingly and sometimes I can't go through them on my own. I am not sure how much longer I can linger. I am not looking for anything here, I won't ask you to send light my way this time, because I don't want it. I just want everything to drop dead. I'd rather you not write me back either. It'll make me feel less pitiful, and I know we've agreed that pity has no place between us, so let's not give it one now. How's your book coming out? I am sending you all the bits of light I have left, as always.

Yours forever,

To Nick

Dear Nick,
Do you know how some people say that writing in your second language is a lot easier than writing in your mother tongue? Well the theory goes like this: Writing in a language that is not your mother tongue lays a distance between you and the words, like you're standing behind a glass wall and your words are on the other side. You've never lived through these words, you know what they mean, but only from a distance. Your mother tongue, on the other hand, knows you inside out. She knows everything you feel, everything you go through, and even if she doesn't have the words for it, she knows you better than any other language. Because you see, language is not just some letters that are attached together to give you a certain meaning, language is culture, it's memories and scents and love letters. But here's the problem; English is not my first language, but it's become too familiar that i feel like the words strip me bare whenever i approach them. I become too vulnerable whenever i hold a pen in my hand and you know how much i hate vulnerability. I hate the idea of being exposed like an open wound bleeding for all to see. And for a while English has managed to hide that vulnerability to some extent. But now i feel like English knows me better than my mother tongue and it's very inconvenient for me. That's why i have decided to move on to another language, another hide-out, and hope the words can still give me shelter. Et je pense que le français est celui pour moi. I know you're thinking this is absolutely bizarre and that i should find something better to do with my time instead of think about these things. But what can we do? We are who are. Anyhow, i miss you, and i hope you're well. I know you hate the winter, so i hope  this letter finds you warm.

Yours always,