Edited by: Maggie Rosenau
Here are parts of a collection of letters that were written in two cities. I thought to write to you every
day. I wrote some days, other days I did not. I wrote in the streets, at the entrance to my house, on the
bus, in the bathroom and in the garden. There were times when I woke up in the night to write one
sentence. There were times when I spent hours trying to even write a single word. Sometimes I could
not. I would take a bath, put on clean clothes, light a cigarette, and try to begin. Sometimes the pen
does not move. I have saved much of what I wanted to say without writing it. This here is more difficult,
as it cannot be torn apart later.
So as not to see you…
If only the wind were not cold and you were not alone. Perhaps you would have loved that river.
Nothing else saved us from the dilemma of reality. We didn’t even need to go to it—its presence was
enough. The existence of a river that we could dream near, a river whose limbs we could throw our
wishes into was enough. We made sure our wishes were like that river. They never stop and do not
become a sea. They keep the same never change. Similar to us. We own it and its own us, we watch it
leave and then we leave.
Perhaps your dilemma now is that things are no longer the same. Well…not the same while you are
alone. So maybe now the Mountain means nothing to you but fear. And maybe the road means nothing
but the distance.
We knew that the road is not merely about arriving. We were afraid to arrive somewhere where nothing
happens. We had always dreamed that magical, miraculous things would happen if we climbed the
whole plateau. We never reached the top though. We climbed the half of it, happy with the exploration
without destination. Perhaps this was safe. Perhaps one of us climbed it alone and remained silent after
discovering no dream there, no magic, just a land like any other land, dry and
tiresome. We dreamed of a land lush and bright and green with grass.
Perhaps this is the same dilemma for me: trying things alone, preparing food enough for only one
person, not telling you anything when I see you. Or perhaps the trouble is that I only dream to see you, but then I
am afraid I will be alone near you. So let us agree not to see each other. Waiting for you is sweeter.
Imagining you calling my name near a river at the base of a Plateau comforts me more. A plateau, We always thought it was a mountain of dreams.
Why does fear make us like this? Why do we fear what we love? There are so many things we know
nothing about, yet still fear. Fear is also culture and method. You know the children who prepare
themselves every night for the loss of their parents? Or the sailor whose fear of the sea is the reason he
understands the sea at all.
Is it those imagined experiences, not our lived ones, that outweigh the severity of the matter?
the matter? A kiss, for example, is sharp and flammable matter.
– Tell me that you love me!
– I love you!
– No no, tell me later when we forget that I have asked you.
Saying “tell me that you love me” is no different than telling someone to say they are thirsty and
demand they be honest and true about it.
Sometimes love turns into a game aimed to break the heaviness of existence. Sort of like a survival
technique without weight, as if one was approaching a predator without knowing its habits.
Experimentation and observation also carry authentic genes to tame fear.
At the riverside, we watched planes and said: They are flying spores. That term “spores” and how it is
spelled made you laugh. Always. Maybe someone saw us from the plane and said: I saw an ant! Maybe
you and I were for him just one ant. Now I watch planes and see them only as airplanes, crystal and tin.
PS: When you gently blow on a group of ants, they all stop for a moment in a funny way. Have you tried
this? You will be captivated by the fear of ants. You will see it even with a small puff.
I long for those dreams I once had and still knew would not come true. I lived in them, regardless. Saved by them by simply allowing them.
Did I really have to stop waiting for you?
There is a deep tension to get out—to reveal ourselves and speak seriously about anything.
It is curious how closed off we allow ourselves to become. Curious how everything we talk about,
explain, and say is nothing more than a light fragrance. A trace of some other deep desire…