and you knew

dear …..,

it’s kind of surprising, right? you’d think I would use one of the many nicknames I have reserved for you in my mind over the last few years. but we didn’t know each other then and now all those nicknames I had for you have lost their meaning. which is good in a way. so I’m just going to leave it blank, it feels better. not so forced; as if I am giving myself more space to write everything I have been meaning to write. of course, I keep forgetting you have already read a small part of my writings without me knowing, which honestly makes me nervous. I am not as good with numbers as you are, otherwise I would have figured out the probability of you finding my writings a long time ago. it sorts of feels as if you’re in my head, even though I haven’t really told you how I feel about you. yet. isn’t it strange that I can waste a whole paragraph on something others would probably be able to say in two sentences?

don’t get me wrong. I despise shakespeare. so far I have managed to read only two of his plays until the end; hamlet because I had to and othello because I actually liked that play. I have watched all the film adaptations and versions of each and that was only to satisfy the insanity inside my mind that comes with the personality of a cinephile that I am. (is it just me or was that sentence really long?) but I saw the photograph above and I thought, this would fit. but I am not entirely sure to what. I have been trying to write and put my thoughts down but every single time I end up getting distracted after half an hour; forgetting the words in the process, forgetting everything. for a second, it feels like a relief but it all comes back too soon and too suddenly.

but it sounds wrong. the quote I mean. I went and looked it up. shakespeare did not write, or say it. the real writer’s name is arrigo boito; he’s an italian and lived between 1894 and 1918. and this particular sentence comes from his libretto of an opera titled otello, which is where the confusion occurs. however, otello is based on the original play othello by shakespeare. aren’t you glad that you know all this now? yeah, I thought so. it’s interesting, though. I really wish I could get to my point but I’ve just started writing after many weeks and my fingers are moving on their own, and it’s beautiful and amazing. I almost feel as if I am flying. writing without stopping or thinking gives me an indescribable sense of being high. the crash will come later, I’m sure.

the weather is affecting me in a very negative way. it’s constantly white and grey, cold, depressing. just the way you like it. all the headaches, the unwillingness to stay awake and the general hatred towards everything and everyone triggered by the weather and nothing else. twenty four seven, it doesn’t go away. except when I was cuddled up on your couch, with your arms around me. it felt as if a part of everything negative inside me eased up a little bit. I allowed myself to feel content with who I am. you managed to bring it out in me. how or why; I don’t know. the last few months have been really hard on me. a lot of it is personal; trivial stupid shit you wouldn’t be even remotely interested in. a lot of it had something to do with the painful transition period into the semi-adulthood combined with the post-high school euphoria. that was december. which was still okay because everything seemed a little bit more interesting than it actually was. sort of like some weird form of delirium. another term for delirium is dementia.

you met me at a very strange period of my life. I have no idea where I am going or who I am. nothing and everything makes sense at the moment. that kind of thing. I wonder whether you have ever experienced one of these stages, you probably have but reason why I am wondering is because everything seems to get to you in a different way. most people wouldn’t think about it but to me it makes such a difference. the way you process the world and things around yourself; the way you form your sentences; the way you listen and respond. you actually listened to the things I said.

I am not sure what’s happening. I feel this constant urge to write. last night I retired to bed at almost two in the morning, having written thousands of words in a few hours. and this morning I had trouble waking up but I had a cup of coffee; it wasn’t even eight am yet and I was already writing, half asleep. I am trying to keep busy and I am busy. but still the time passes by so slowly for me now. no one to look forward to. but one can get used to anything. this thing is too long, proving that not only I can waste one paragraph but also six. and there’ll be more. I have already written another half a dozen other letters. and that story about those two people at the airport inspired by the shadows on your wall at two am? I started that, too.

the one with an inner voice within that won’t keep still

February 21, 2011