Saturday, November 22, 2014

Oct 17 - Letters to Luna


Luna,

What you have chosen is entirely your prerogative, valid and I have tried to express my true respect for that as I bleed out.  I thought you might be hurting or struggling overwhelmed inside and maybe something I might write would help you open up and we could try to grow something beautifully unique by the awakening of your vulnerability and exploring the confluences of the girl that grew into the woman you are and the boy that grew into the man that I am burgeoning from mutual empathy. 

What that something unique would be I do not know.  I felt we had a hell of a foundation in how we were built before we ever met that clicked with each other.  I want to try.  I feel sorry for you, for me.  I feel like we both saw it and it was too much for you to process, so you dismissed it.  

I feel like I met this part of you that nests inside you and spoke for brief and amazing windows that captured my heart.  I felt like the you at the top of the stairs was so genuine because that part of you is the core of everything else in your art, intelligence and beauty.  

I have felt to a degree like you were drowning her and I wanted to fight for her; I want that part of you to tell me how I make you feel.  All the metaphors and hyperbole I may have employed in my writing it is all fueled by that dynamic of the confliction and empathetic affinity I feel for that core seed of you. 

Being at the mercy of another human’s heart is the ultimate in relinquishing control and your disinclination to engage in a potential path to such is all too well advertised in my sorrow in this unrequited predicament.  I imagine the increasing distance in time from what we shared only solidifies your immutability to exit your comfort zone and hardens firmer into glazed disinterest.  

I feel like you have probably gone through these cycles of getting sort of close and then pushing people away because you feel your identity is threatened.  I may be projecting but I felt we both had failed relationships centered on the same issue that comes from being an artist.  An artist needs time in the self to be alone with our thoughts to make our art.  An artist feels more deeply creating internal gravity that draws one inward and others away. 

So much of this for me was about your inner permission to have feelings.  You come across as army-tough welded with stubborn self-determinism.  You are like a titanium cookie under Cerberus’ ball sack; prohibiting emotional intimacy and your vulnerability to emit an avenue to be read or self-disclose.  

What I have been seeking is something from you that felt like an honest answer of what did you feel.  What did my poems, my presence, and my letters make you feel? 

I feel confliction in the contrast of a woman so boldly forward in four quarters of her body, three quarters of her mind, yet gives no quarter for her emotions.  How do I make you feel; my writing, all of it?  The lack of your honest heart in detail commensurate with the portent of your depth prompts my pursuits.  

You do not owe me an explanation or a damn thing, but for me to believe there was never that iceberg I described feeling, struggling in your depths, is madness.  You came across to me as one of the most intelligent, deeply thinking, giant-old soul women I have met.  How you appear to treat your own heart makes me cry.  

I wrote this short story on Sunday about ideas of you inspired in me.  Make of it what you will.  

One of the most treasured moments you shared with me was reading Calvino on my couch.  Consider this story a repayment for the joy you brought to me then.  I have no anger for you, only smiles and lament for what might have been.  I hope you find the short story adventurous, playfully ribald, flattering, funny, and a seed.  My greatest hope is that in the scenes where Alice knows not what to do, there is no logical reason she knows the next step, but she looks inside herself and in that reflection is where her path surfaces.  I have hoped inside you operate with a similar deliberation and self-release.  

Best wishes, 
In my humble humanity,



Severus

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