2001-07-03 - 12:02 p.m.

Without hindrance, witholding nothing, I open meekly unto all...

Why do I have this ineluctable urge to write to you? I don't want these letters to become a process without a sting - to fill myself with thoughts, empty them to you and through the veins of a black magic to be made whole once more. A part of me wishes that I had a definitive statement. A motto. A jewel cut just to my specifications that I could present you with; an amethyst that leaves no room for doubt or inquisition. Alas, alas, we were not made so. My thoughts are never long for this earth, and I'm left to waltz with transience.

I find it difficult to write to you because I never know where to begin and where to cut off. The very act of writing seems arbitrary. Am I writing for myself? To you? At you? I cannot know the creases on your brow as you sift through whatever of these elements you're able to recognise. If only to read were to assemble a puzzle. I'd like to watch as your hands fumbled with pieces (momentarily, of course). If a man's house is his castle, then surely the method in which he chooses to construct it is telling also.

So you see I'm left with uncertainty. I want to write to you but in doing so I'm committing an atrocity. After all, what can be more pure than silence? Silence is not interpellation. All urgency is extracted. There are no letters writ large or small. No sound. The angel who allows you to close your eyes and imagine without strings is, I think, one of humanity's guardians.

I can't close my eyes or imagine when I write. There is a weight upon my shoulders. I arch forward, crushed under the weight of expectancy, desire and promise. Like a soldier under a heavy load. I can no longer see straight in front of me. Can one be alive and be glancing downwards, always? I want these words to possess...an object? A memory? A quality? An item, let me call it. Item X. I wish that I knew what it was that I long for. Knowledge would be one step closer to immersion.

When I try to speak to you like this I'm only reminded of how far I fall short. There is no encyclopaedia of human thoughts and feelings, but if there were would you or I be strong enough to carry it for an instant? Most likely I would let it fall carelessly. I shudder when i write to you because these thoughts are such a pale and poor imitation of reality. So I will stop speaking, and smile glibly.

"If music be the food of love, play on."

Let me stop speaking while I still have air in my lungs.

troilus

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