A Letter I
A letter.
Why is a letter called a letter? I mean if we’re going to get even a little technical, shouldn’t it be “letters”? Because a letter is made up of words, which are made up of letters. Not just one. Maybe it’s like when someone says, “can I have word?”- they don’t want ONE word. They most likely want several. Or more. But someone is much more likely to agree to listen to A word than “several hundred words”. That just sounds tedious. If someone asked me for “several hundred words”, I might just say no.
So I have taken a strong liking to brown eyeliner. Not a lot of it, and not a dark coco brown, more of a java color, a burnt sienna. Something with a hint of maroon. It’s partially a function of what I can find, I suppose. If I had a black pencil in my hand, I’d probably be almost just as likely to quickly dash that over and inside my lash-lines. But the color I have is called Mambo, or maybe Tango, and it seems to draw the green and the depth out of my eyes, while black seems to concentrate and pronounced. I’m fine not being too pronounced right now; I like the freedom of brown.
It’s all been said, really. There’s really nothing left that I’m afraid to say, nothing that hasn’t been said before. It’s rather pacifying. I mean, there’s a little bit of me that will suddenly realize that it’s true that everything’s been said, but also that everything’s changed or that nothing has changed, and it will want to panic. It will turn it’s head from side to side, slowly and searching at first, then swinging and sharply. Its eyes will widen, and its heart will start to race, and then breathing will become difficult. The little part may start to hyperventilate, will feel that it needs to run away and break the bonds ahat nd defy the present reality, or that it needs to scream and yell: scream like a Who on a little speck of dust, scream that it is THERE and must not be boiled. Scream that it needs to have some control, that it can’t handle simply being blown ever which way on the whims of the wind, that it either needs the power to at least influence the direction of its dustspeck, or that someone at least needs to set it down safe on a very soft clover.
But the little bit is subdued. Sometimes a little cruelly, like a hallucenating person being secured for an asylum. But usually it will be spoken to softly, allowed to cry, encouraged to breathe, and told not to be too scared of wherever the wind will take it. And it will be reminded, it will be convinced that there IS someone holding my little dustspeck. And so I go on.
I’m not subduing myself, and I’m not being overly dramatic. I’m not censoring myself for anyone else’s benefit, just because I make them uncomfortable (as long as I’m not being hurtful or cruel, and of course I’m taking other people’s feelings into consideration, but still).
I’ve given up the power struggle, but I’m still holding onto my hope.
I feel pretty free.
Love,
Why is a letter called a letter? I mean if we’re going to get even a little technical, shouldn’t it be “letters”? Because a letter is made up of words, which are made up of letters. Not just one. Maybe it’s like when someone says, “can I have word?”- they don’t want ONE word. They most likely want several. Or more. But someone is much more likely to agree to listen to A word than “several hundred words”. That just sounds tedious. If someone asked me for “several hundred words”, I might just say no.
So I have taken a strong liking to brown eyeliner. Not a lot of it, and not a dark coco brown, more of a java color, a burnt sienna. Something with a hint of maroon. It’s partially a function of what I can find, I suppose. If I had a black pencil in my hand, I’d probably be almost just as likely to quickly dash that over and inside my lash-lines. But the color I have is called Mambo, or maybe Tango, and it seems to draw the green and the depth out of my eyes, while black seems to concentrate and pronounced. I’m fine not being too pronounced right now; I like the freedom of brown.
It’s all been said, really. There’s really nothing left that I’m afraid to say, nothing that hasn’t been said before. It’s rather pacifying. I mean, there’s a little bit of me that will suddenly realize that it’s true that everything’s been said, but also that everything’s changed or that nothing has changed, and it will want to panic. It will turn it’s head from side to side, slowly and searching at first, then swinging and sharply. Its eyes will widen, and its heart will start to race, and then breathing will become difficult. The little part may start to hyperventilate, will feel that it needs to run away and break the bonds ahat nd defy the present reality, or that it needs to scream and yell: scream like a Who on a little speck of dust, scream that it is THERE and must not be boiled. Scream that it needs to have some control, that it can’t handle simply being blown ever which way on the whims of the wind, that it either needs the power to at least influence the direction of its dustspeck, or that someone at least needs to set it down safe on a very soft clover.
But the little bit is subdued. Sometimes a little cruelly, like a hallucenating person being secured for an asylum. But usually it will be spoken to softly, allowed to cry, encouraged to breathe, and told not to be too scared of wherever the wind will take it. And it will be reminded, it will be convinced that there IS someone holding my little dustspeck. And so I go on.
I’m not subduing myself, and I’m not being overly dramatic. I’m not censoring myself for anyone else’s benefit, just because I make them uncomfortable (as long as I’m not being hurtful or cruel, and of course I’m taking other people’s feelings into consideration, but still).
I’ve given up the power struggle, but I’m still holding onto my hope.
I feel pretty free.
Love,