Writi persevered, obstinate like a kingfisher, pecking. Pecking on and on. How to begin, how to begin. A perfectionist, even the clinking sound of stainless steel piled against stainless steel inside the kitchen disturbed her. The last letter is always a first. Or, I could well rephrase: My first last letter. She toyed with her pen and smelled the notebook. It had coloured handmade pages. It smells of cold, neglected food. She started writing:
Dear, dear,
The red of the sky is an extraordinary event. As is the yellow of the trees. The sparse incidents, not always pleasing, no. In between stood I, the brown wood in argyle pattern. I, of celebrated shows and negotiated roles, I cannot complain, yet here I am, melancholic, and to an extent, merely, massively bored. Beaten blue. Have you seen a tree with blue branches? Do you not get me? Let me try again.
I am a bird,
Devoid of wings,
I had no life of songs,
So I could rhyme it now
With 'sings.'
Precisely.
Nothing I tried,
Has hardly been heard.
Shoe polishes, sticky jams,
Nude nail enamels,
Breakfast and quarrels.
So I gave in to addiction
To crisp linens of hotels --
I almost wrote hospitals!
One is life,
The other without.
My addiction was a failure, wasn't it too? "Eclectic," they whispered behind my back. This void filled me. I felt like a song without lyric, or reason. So I will swallow sleep tonight. And be solely responsible. There are no debts I hold, none. There is no regret too. Yes, somewhere in me a curiosity lurks -- to know -- what will happen when people get to know. "The crazy one is dead!", "We were expecting this!", "She was brilliant, in phases."
Do not attempt to reread this. Life and letters are same -- personal -- and often, one does fail to understand. My red sky, yellow trees, blue branches, and woody argyle apparel, all made my life.
You have a tremendous one!
Write one extraordinary letter at least.
Love,
Writi.
Carefully she folded the letter.
Twelve years on it came out as is, from within one of the slots of her wallet. Her faded denim wallet. While Writi lived in the aura of that long night where she came to believe that she wrote one of the most poetically stoic letter ever, she changed her wallet. And put it back into the suede glory.
Dear, dear,
The red of the sky is an extraordinary event. As is the yellow of the trees. The sparse incidents, not always pleasing, no. In between stood I, the brown wood in argyle pattern. I, of celebrated shows and negotiated roles, I cannot complain, yet here I am, melancholic, and to an extent, merely, massively bored. Beaten blue. Have you seen a tree with blue branches? Do you not get me? Let me try again.
I am a bird,
Devoid of wings,
I had no life of songs,
So I could rhyme it now
With 'sings.'
Precisely.
Nothing I tried,
Has hardly been heard.
Shoe polishes, sticky jams,
Nude nail enamels,
Breakfast and quarrels.
So I gave in to addiction
To crisp linens of hotels --
I almost wrote hospitals!
One is life,
The other without.
My addiction was a failure, wasn't it too? "Eclectic," they whispered behind my back. This void filled me. I felt like a song without lyric, or reason. So I will swallow sleep tonight. And be solely responsible. There are no debts I hold, none. There is no regret too. Yes, somewhere in me a curiosity lurks -- to know -- what will happen when people get to know. "The crazy one is dead!", "We were expecting this!", "She was brilliant, in phases."
Do not attempt to reread this. Life and letters are same -- personal -- and often, one does fail to understand. My red sky, yellow trees, blue branches, and woody argyle apparel, all made my life.
You have a tremendous one!
Write one extraordinary letter at least.
Love,
Writi.
Carefully she folded the letter.
Twelve years on it came out as is, from within one of the slots of her wallet. Her faded denim wallet. While Writi lived in the aura of that long night where she came to believe that she wrote one of the most poetically stoic letter ever, she changed her wallet. And put it back into the suede glory.
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