Katie. Kate?
Whatever title you would prefer I use while addressing you.
Miss? Madam? Ma'am?
Well, anyway. Just insert whatever would be the least offensive and most appropriate, please.
Hey.
How are you?
I hope you would say "very good". Or maybe even better than that. I wouldn't presume to know, either way. Though I sorely wish I did.
....
I'm not even really sure how to start this letter, Y'know? Like. It's been several months. The last time I received a letter from you was April 22nd. That's.... is that nearly 6 months?
Well. It's been a while, regardless.
I still think of you. Very often. The memory of you is still bright and vibrant, although maybe the color has faded from something festive and gaudy to shades much more greyscale and sepia. That's alright-- the classic look suits us well, I think.
I've continued to try and keep the picture clean, in my head. Y'know? The solution has been to lock it away, so the sunlight doesn't wash it out. But I still take out the picture and stare at it, often. A funny little wistful smile on my face.
I suspect you don't have time to think of me much, any more. Except maybe en passant. Maybe you see or hear something that immediately conjures a subconscious recollection of me; brings it to the forefront of your mind, unwillingly.
When that happens, do you feel the pinpricks of anger flush your skin? Your face hot and chest tightening in anger? Like you've been jabbed with a stinger?
Or is there still a soft place in your heart for me? Even if it's a small one. Have you entombed that place with carved and brutal blocks of ice?
Could a single everglowing coal ever hope to melt it?
Hm.
A lot of times, when I'm sitting here, vomiting my mediocre prose-poetry into this journal, I'll stop and lay back. Cat next to me, laptop on my legs, headphones in. I lean backwards and stare at the ceiling. I've done it many times; more than I can count. And there's never anything to see there. But I always see you when I do it.
You're still my Muse, in a lot of ways.
Y'know?
I was out running, tonight. Sort of like a tail-end to my workout? And I'm listening to some new makina-techno stuff I found. And that jasmine high I've talked about in here, it was sweeping through my midbrain with a consuming and seductive series of pulses. The music was so good, I felt a little like I was disconnected from my body. And as the adrenaline coursed through me, and goosebumps rippled across my arms and shoulders, I thought of you. The same as I have done many, many times over the past year.
It's strange-- but oddly comforting and right-- that when I am encased in a endorphin wash, I think of You.
I know I've said this once before, but I feel it stands to be repeated. I reached a measure of perfection with you, Katie. There were many times with you that felt right, and perfect. Defined in a way that is nigh indefinable. It was an experience not duplicated in my life. And it makes my heart ache, having lost it. Having lost you. Now, still, well over a year.
Sometimes, when I think of us, I still play pretend in my head. But not in the flirting-with-"I think this could maybe happen if I'm the owner of a charmed existence"-kind-of-way, like I did. Where I envisioned us having resolved the crux of our grievances, and come together again.
This time, it's just a romanticized, storybook image.
We're standing in a field. In the middle of nowhere. It's vibrant and pleasantly warm. The vegetation is thick, but soft. A breeze tugs at our clothing, and combs the individual blades of grass in ripples. It's just... idyllic. Y'know? And I'm dressed simply-- in plain gi pants, wearing your b
lack bracelet. And you, a simple sundress.
And we just... spend a long time staring at one another.
But this field-- it's inside a bubble? Like, a half-sphere dome? And it shimmers and shines with some sort of bluish hue. And if you squint, you can see roiling black clouds of pure chaos, outside. Rainclouds, and duststorms, and slicing sleet and every other metaphor for the darker parts of life.
But they're out there. And we're in here, with each other. At least, for the time being.
That's what I imagine. And how I feel, when I think of maybe seeing you again, some day. Feeling the rest of the world drop away, and being transported back to that place.
Sometimes, when I'm alone, I come back to that place. I go there often when I meditate, and I sit quietly, and remember you. Spend time exalting you, as you should be. To me.
I always hope you'll show up. But... you never do.
Even these days, every single time I check my email, I hope to see one from you.
Every.
Single.
Time.
But. There's never a letter there.
And that's ok! Truly, seriously, it is.
I remember one of the last things I ever said to you, was that I .... I didn't want you to make things harder for yourself. You didn't have to be "fair". And that I just wanted you to find consonance, and be happy. And even if that meant without me, then with all the conviction I could muster, I hoped for your happiness.
I have no regrets about having said that, or if me having said something else would have made any difference. I like to pretend that when I said that, though... you were able to put the coal down. And now you're living a fuller, healthier life. Tending your Garden of Life's Contentment.
I like to pretend that I paid for a little piece of that plot of land with my letters. My apologies, and my efforts at changing my way of interacting with you, and so on.
And I know that might be a shameful and selfish way to view it. After all, I bought and paid for my own happiness some years ago, before, with your blood and tears. So... this isn't an attempt at laying claim to whatever happiness you've carved out of life with your bare and bloodied hands. Whatsoever.
I don't know. I honestly am not even sure what I'm trying to say.
I just... I'm glad you put the coal down.
This journal, it's been a tribute paid to you. Did you know? I can't imagine you not; I've had all the subtlety of a brick-to-the-face with it, at times. Because I'm not as sly as I like to pretend I am. I know this, on a deeper, intellectual level. And it's embarrassing. But. Yeah. Y'know.
Moving on.
Even my prose-stuff in here. A lot of it belongs to you, in an inspirational sense. It's a curious thing, the path I've forced myself to tread without your direction. Is that weird? It seems weird to type. And think about.
I wonder if you had continued to hand-feed me tiny scraps of validation and hope, if I would have eventually become bitter? I suspect so. But then.... I don't know. Maybe not. You break like, ALL of my own internally mandated rules. I might be much further along my Taoist journey, by now, if that had been the case.
I'll say this, though-- all it would take would be a single, clear sign from you, and I would immediately and zealously reapply myself to your letters. There's a large and prolific shard of you within me, Katie, that bleeds into everything I do. And here, especially. Why else would I be writing this, right now?
I just... even though I know this is a letter you'll never read. I wanted you to know that it's still a space for you.
Happy Birthday. I know I'm awful at pinpointing the date, specifically; it's a character flaw (of which I do have many!)
I was just thinking of you-- as I do-- and wanted to wish you well. And by "well" I mean "perhaps the best birthday you've ever had". Truly.
I hope you did something amazing, with amazing people, and felt amazing all day.
Like. Literally that much amazing!
Anyway.
I was reading the letter I wrote you, about a year ago, before I sent the email with the login information to this ... thing. And there's so many things from then that still apply and resonate now. Y'know?
"I just.
Miss you, Katie.
I read things-- all kinds of things!-- and I think "I wonder what Katie would think of this? What her opinion would be?"
Or I realize something in my book, and I wish I could crawl into bed next to you, cross-legged, and talk to you about it.
Or I reach some random philosophical or psychological impasse, and I wish there was a way for me to contact you, and share my thought with you, and more importantly, ask you yours.
It's a little strange; people will ask me "How is your day?" or "How are you?", and these days, I have to literally stifle a sad smile when I answer in a feigned-enthusiasm "Oh, it's been good so far" or "I'm doing well, thank you."
Those responses are true; I am doing well. I have very little to complain about, in my life; I have learned to love the simple pleasures, and take joy in the things I have...
.... except I no longer have YOU.
Which means that, when I answer that question? It feels as though I'm forcing a response I don't really 'feel'.
With you in my life, Katie, I could honestly answer-- and with exuberance-- "I'm fucking great! How're you?" Or "My day is so goddamn good, I can taste it in my spit."
That is not hyperbole."
Actually.... the entire last part of that letter makes me bow my head. Weighted from the gravity of my own words, thick with the truth of my own selfishness laid bare. And how much I squandered my time spent with you.
I still refuse to let your picture bleach, y'know.
I'll never let it fade into obsolescence.
You're still... ....
Well.
Important to me.
I said, then, that my loyalty was not a thing easily earned. I said it and meant it, then... and mean it no less, now.
I'm still madly loyal to you, Kathryn. There's still a thrummingstone within me that belongs to you, and still holds out hope. Y'know? As far-fetched and irrational (and maybe worse, for you) as it may be. I would still fight for you.
I would.
I still think of you as family I never had.
....
Despite the inappropriateness of it, this is still my journal, too, so I'm going to say it.
I still love you, Katie. Very, very much. It makes my heart ache to think of you, still. In the most bittersweet way possible.
I miss you, Katie.
I love you.
I hope you're (more than) well.
Really, truly.
And that your life without me is as incredible as I hoped it would be be.
Happy birthday.
Still yours,
--Chrystian
12:30 a.m. - 2014-10-04
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