It has been a long time. A really long time since my last letter. I can imagine you must have looked at the calendar ever so frequently, counting the days to the final letter, if ever. Why have I not written? Why have I waned? What has distracted me away from making you the focal point of my attention? I can’t really say in confessional language, but I feel these days that even writing a letter to you is too much of an extension of myself. I feel like an animal who has burrowed into it’s hole to hibernate, to hide from predators, which still is to follow biological instincts of preservation.
What has become of my life? I feel as if I have hit the brakes and there is a screech, a still audible echo of the banging of the bumper to my life vehicle as I sit in silence to muse, to discover and to think again. What is life? My life? How have I been living it? Of course, you can trust your judgement that this letter has been unplanned in the sense that I did not think of exact words to writ and my questions are only just now making themselves obvious and present. It is like reporting to duty in the Elizabeths-jungles. Lucid. If anything should make sense, maybe it will be made by figuring out the puzzle in this statement I am about to write : it can be left, it can be abandoned. You can just up and leave. This statement is not to be judged in the romantic sense of world affairs, presupposing a relationship and as such, a leaving behind of a partner by the other. What I mean is, the statement affects me directly. I have uttered it to none other but myself. To leave what? That is what I don’t really know, but to leave something, to consciously put my foot on the brakes is something that has been impressed upon my consciousness recently.
Concerning the way I write. This has been the way thoughts have been thought out in my head recently, owing maybe to a greater freedom of expressing, a divulging of my creative powers into the vessel of my body, enough to not be suppressed by any pressure to write because of the available routine, or to write in a certain way or to even write at all after this letter. Is this a cause for worry? I don’t know, but right now I feel that nothing should matter except my total freedom and need for space. I make no promises that I shall write as often from today or that I have a mad desire to grab at paper and ink or to be less exaggerating with my choice of words; to grab at my tablet or laptop, but what I do know is that I am seeking for peace and serenity and less pressure and less of anything that wants to spur me on to a showmanship of acting out my ‘being alive’ . I am alive and I don’t need to prove this by doing activities or by becoming great. At least for this moment in time. This phase of my life, whatever it is signifying or heralding. I exist and that is fine. I am not on anyone’s timetable.(you know already where this phrase has been lifted from) .
In other words Aweblue, I am probably on an alternative path again, as I always seem to be, trying to find my space and why I am in this point in time, occupying consciousness with billions of other people at this point in history. Few things interest me much. I want to be closer to God. I want to be happy. I want to study well for my exams and whatever fits into this schedule of mine, fits. Whatever does not, goes. Imagine a lazy stream. Imagine a lazy object gliding. Imagine a lazy day. Or imagine serenity and peace and you would have imagined the location of my soul. Of my twenty two year old self.
Thank you Aweblue, for being there to read. I might write soon, I might never again, but we have shared some connection that was meant to be at this time in our lives. All things are planned, if you believe the bible.