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Anonymous Coward · 1mo
what’s your all time favorite lyric?
Anonymous Coward · 14d
I’m fairly certain you don’t, Nora. And I’d hate to disappoint you. I’m sorry. I’ve missed you, though. l appreciate you thinking that of me.
Anonymous Coward · 14d
If you’ve missed me, you’d probably know who I am by now. Just thought you should know you’re loved and admired more than you can imagine.
Anonymous Coward · 20d
We used to be friends, years ago. You probably don’t remember me, but I can’t tell you how strange and wonderful it is to have found you again. I hope life’s been kind to you. You’ve always had one of the most beautiful hearts I’ve ever known.
Anonymous Coward · 3mo
Before anything, I should give you my deepest apologies for my delay. Fridays are always dizzying for me, and I feel like I wouldn’t be at my best if my words were drunk ramblings. I wouldn’t want to lose my position as your favorite writer, and I must tell you that reading that from you gave me the happiest of thoughts and feelings. But what’s a writer without a muse? Could I be capable of so much honesty if it weren’t for you, Silver Girl? My words come out in letters only for you to read them. I hope it doesn’t upset you to occupy that position. Your words, by the way, will never be too much for me. I can’t seem to get enough of them, as my anxiety only grows deeper every time I write to you.
I hope it doesn’t disappoint you, but my face isn’t in pieces. The Phantom and I share, on the other hand, a passion for music and a muse to guide our poetry. I won’t call you Christine, as I would never wish for you to fear me. And thank God you don’t. As I told you, I only have an urge to know you. And if writing is the best way to do it, that’s a crime I’ll never fail to commit.
I’d be lying if I told you I think my mother watches over me. Not that I’m an unbeliever, but my thoughts never follow that line. I think about her as a static memoir. A collection of fragments that blink through my eyes and my mind, sometimes so vividly that they feel like reality. “The entire world is a dreadful collection of memoranda that she did exist, and that I have lost her,” says Heathcliff, and I share that feeling. I’m deeply terrified of forgetting her, Silver Girl. If anyone asks me what my biggest fear is, I’ll always answer: forgetting. Not for any other reason than my memories of her. They’re my most precious treasures, and I wouldn’t mind being forgotten or alone for the rest of my life as long as I could keep them. I do believe, though, that your father has watched over you your whole life. As I’ve told you, I’m not an unbeliever. My beliefs follow different paths depending on what presents itself before me. If you feel it, I believe you. I truly do, and I say it from the bottom of my heart. Maybe their watch depends on wishing for it. Don’t worry about crossing any lines. I’d never draw them with you. Especially since we’re talking about a missing part we both share. My happiest memory of her is from almost twenty years ago. I was six, or close to it, and we used to have picnics in the forest all the time. That day was no different from any other, except for the fact that we saw a huge wolf. They’re very common where I’m from, and we are not frightened by them. At least, I don’t remember my parents being. She got so excited about it and took so many pictures. Even now, they’re hanging on the walls of my old bedroom, along with the other thousands of pictures she took throughout her life. Can you share your favorite memory of your father with me, too? I’m sure I’ll be delighted by it.
I’ve been using this little piece of plastic with the Post-its glued to it to mark my books. That way, I can carry both things as one, and it reduces my chances of forgetting one of them, as they’re both absolutely essential to my reading. One more boring thing about me: I hate forgetting my things, and I do it more often than I’m proud to admit. Before I leave home, I usually check my pockets and do a mental checklist of what I can’t forget. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t. Your credit-card-marker is as unique as everything about you seems to be. Just like your dream of a ’78 Cadillac Eldorado, which is an excellent choice. Cadillacs are one of the best inventions in automotive history. My passion began with my dad and those oldies. He has this ’65 Ford Mustang that I must have taken apart and put the engine back together a thousand times during my teenage years. But I’m a lover of speed, and the JDM models have my heart. I do have a love for Impalas, too, especially as a Supernatural fan. Too childish, again? I’m just a big fan of any spooky thing I find.
Would you think of me as a sheep, Nora? Or would you think of me as a wolf, with its teeth covered in blood? Which one do you think suits me more? I’d probably describe myself as a dog. A dog who spent too much time on a leash and now doesn’t know how to trust anymore. You’re afraid to take the bones; I’m afraid to surrender. Maybe we’re both afraid of the same things — being petrified, biting someone’s hand out of fear, hurting others. Sometimes I feel like I’ve also forgotten how to touch without cruelty. We all have our needs, indeed. As Silken said, “The enormity of my desire disgusts me.” And as I promised you my honesty, that is how I shall continue. I was once the one who always preferred being hurt instead of hurting. One day, however, I became the one who hurts deeply, just to get what I wanted. Quoting Silken, again, “Why take more than we need? Because we can. […] Something's not right about what I'm doing but I'm still doing it— living in the worst parts, ruining myself. My inner life is a sheet of black glass.” I ended up in a field full of shame, disgusted by my own reflection. But I promise you, I’ve learned to recognize that part of myself. It’s been a long time since I’ve bitten anyone, or even stepped out of line. I don’t like being rude, and I hate being mean. I’m learning to control my thirst, working on my consciousness, as you said. And my gentleness is, almost every time, greater than my need for blood, as it should be, as my mother taught me. But some days, my inner animal takes over me, and I’m nothing but something rotten. Would I disgust you if you saw my unpleasant side? Are you tolerant of freaks, like Christine was with the Phantom’s unpleasant pieces? I’d never ask you for that. To you, I wish to be the best version of myself. My best words, wishes, and thoughts. But with the best comes the truth, and I’d never lie and tell you I’m a perfect man. There’s selfishness attached to me, as there is to any man who’s known love, loss, and many endings. Will I ever see a love that doesn’t wound, Silver Girl? Is it even possible?
I’ve been reading your author (and he’s really, really good, and there’s much I want to discuss with you about his poetry, but I divide my thoughts so I’ll always have something to share with you) as you’ve probably noticed by my quote. You told me you’ve been analyzing my words, and I’d never expect anything different from you. I never thought anything would pass unnoticed by your sharp eyes, and I’ll never condemn you for anything, much less for trying to see me. I’ve told you, Nora, I’m not hiding. I also want to see you, but I think you’re already aware of that.
I already miss reading your words, Silver Girl. Is it wrong for me to say so? I hope I don’t bother you with my rambling. Or my lack of filters. Or my inability to stay quiet when it comes to you. Or the fact that it took me so long to write you back.
I promise I’ll keep trying to be better. And I promise my next letter won’t take so long.
“There isn’t hope. There is a trail. I follow you.”
Your delighted and anxious,
— Stranger.
Dearest stranger, while you were away, I've spent my tedious time thinking about — and trying to understand — why it's so incredibly easy to talk to you. I've wondered if it's the distance. I've wondered if it's, perhaps, the anonymity. And after many, many trains of thought I've traveled down, hoping to get somewhere, my conclusion was direct and clear: the reason is that you have a soul, and it leaks through the imaginary ink. It has been a hell of a long road since the last time I could recognize one, yet your energy stains and paints my blankest canvases. Every trail you leave, I can't help but immediately follow.
I'm not quite used to being a muse, stranger. But I'm going to be honest with you: it's not because I've never been written, painted, photographed, or the inspiration behind a story. It's because I don't feel like the person they're capturing is anywhere close to me. And it's terrifying to be the person behind something that doesn't echo you back. It's terrifying to be the motivation for a paradoxical monologue from someone who accuses themselves of knowing you best. From the accusation to the testimony, they still can't see. They close their eyes and cover their ears with their hands as if my voice were the drums at a metal rock show: repetitive, pattern-driven, hard to ignore, yet still something they insist on trying to. During the past years, I felt that I had to deliver an instruction manual about myself to be read, or teach others to write about me the same way I do, so I got used to being the artist and turning into my own muse. But your words do feel like fragments that have always lived inside my head. So impressively so, in fact, that I questioned whether there's a chance all my thoughts were always meant for you to discuss. I don't like being a muse. Not at all. But the thing is, it doesn't afflict me — not even in the slightest — to be yours.
The human mind can be extremely deceiving, so, for that, I'm so glad you're an artist. I'm so glad you’re able to preserve your memories in a different kind of technicolor — a little static still, yes, but far beyond your imagination through your work. I know how frightening the possibility of forgetting is; it's my biggest fear too. But I like to think your love is so strong that she's alive even in the things that are not about her. I don't know if it's true, but I once heard that the first thing you forget about someone is their eyes. When my father wasn't doing very well, I used to stare at his obsessively, trying to memorize every ounce of the window to his soul. I used to say his eyes reminded me of banana seeds — you know, those tiny black dots in the middle of the fruit. He had something very similar going on around the hazel undertones. Sometimes, I wake up sweating from a nightmare in which I can't remember what they look like anymore. That's probably why I talk so much about him, trying to give him a second life. I'm horrified by the idea of letting him die twice. Anyone who knows me could introduce me by saying: this is Nora, and she loves her father. And I'd be more than satisfied.
Was your mother a photographer, or was she simply passionate about the witchcraft of eternalizing fleeting life? I'd love to see the pictures of the wolf one day, and of anything else she might have believed was worthy of being seen through her lens. I'm almost one hundred percent sure you must have some of the coolest baby pictures ever taken! And I'm crossing my fingers that I get this one right. My favorite memory of my father is difficult to choose. Above everything that connected us from the very start, the greatest force between us was music. Not only his music — he was a musician, I don't think I mentioned that before — but also every tune we bonded over along the way. One thing he kept doing, and I loved with all my heart, was finding a way to slip my name into every possible song. I felt like the most important girl in the world because, come on, how could every song have my name in it? For example, Be My Baby by The Ronettes would become "be my little Janie", and so on. I've always been a creature of the night. I've never been able to fall asleep before two in the morning; maybe it's a character flaw I'll never fix. So he'd spend hours singing songs, or telling stories he made up himself. I don't think he ever even picked up a book to entertain me. He was a wonderful, terrible liar, but I'd laugh so hard at his absurdity that it was the only way I could fall asleep, mostly to the sound of his voice. And now, his songs are all I have left of him.
To avoid forgetting most of my things — as I also normally do — I carry my bags as though I'm going to war. I take everything with me, seriously. There isn't such a thing as an emergency I'm not ready for. I can be exaggerated, but never unprepared. Maybe that says more about my nervous system than I'd like to admit? For sure. But we don't need to get into that. I can totally see why your interest grew from a Mustang, especially if you got to tinker with the engines from an early age. What color is it? And I didn't want to be the first to confess that my thing for Impalas came from Supernatural, but since you were so kind and considerate as to make room for me to admit it, I surely won't mock you for it. I get it. I really do. This is a safe space for anything a little dark and a little twisted.
Indeed, this is a safe space for even you to be a little dark and a little twisted. I still don't know whether the picture of you weighs more heavily on one side of the scale for me. I see blood, I'm not sure about the fangs. I see softness, I'm not sure about surrender. You stand somewhere between sheep and wolf. Perhaps the shepherd, the way you preach your words. As long as you're honest, completely honest, heart on your sleeve and mind in the other, I'll never feel disgusted by your sincerity. "Honest people don't hide their deeds", as it is said in Wuthering Heights. So if you choose, for whatever reason, at any moment, to be unpleasant, unkind, or even at your cruelest, then be it, completely, but only if it's the truth. Once I can see who you are, I beg you not to hide any part of yourself. I wouldn't say I’m exactly tolerant of freaks; I guess my empathy comes from feeling like a freak myself. I understand that human nature is volatile, and I've never had a fixed morality either. Most days, I don't feel like a human being because I'm not allowed to. Most days, I'm my own jailer. I guess that's the main reason I feel suspicious of being a muse. Would you see me for everything that I am, so much more than a concept, failed and broken, and divided into pieces like stardust, and still find me worthy of your words? My moments of splendor are the majority, so would you stop and paint every rusty metal gold? Tell me, stranger. I'm dying to know.
I'm so, so, so happy you get to read the book. I knew you'd find something in Siken to grow attached to, and I can't wait for you to finish it. I'll be wondering which lines you marked in green, and whether, by chance or by destiny, I have the very same lines underlined twice in the copy on my nightstand. Furthermore, I cannot judge you for missing my words, because, given the delay, I understood just how difficult it would have been to live in the last century, waiting several weeks for yours.
P.S: I don't mind — this is far from a complaint — but I know we talk about lots of personal things in public. So, if you'd like to send me your next letter in a more private way, I'll leave my e-mail address on my profile, just for you to find it. You wouldn't need to reveal yourself, but I'll completely understand if you don't want to change anything at all. I'll be expecting your reply here either way.
Anxiously waiting for you to let me know your next step,
— Silver Girl
Anonymous Coward · 3mo
If I’m a good or a bad writer, that’s for the world to judge. But to be judged, we have to be read first, and I have no intention of being split open for judgment. I do not fear it, but I do not search for it. I only write to put things out. I do accept and am interested in your judgment, though. If I’m torturing you with my endless curiosity, I must be open to being judged, questioned, and even ignored by you. I do hope that last one doesn’t happen. I’ve been, indeed, called quiet before. It always seems so wrong, since my mind feels like a pre-industrial-revolution mess almost all of the time. Loud and unorganized. I share your feelings, Silver Girl — I do not know silence. I don’t remember a day when my head was silent. But there’s a long ride between feeling and expressing, speaking and dying. However, when it comes to grief, the line is razor-thin, almost blurry. And some days do feel like a forest fire, almost impossible to go through. Flaming. Heavy. Bruising. There are, on the other hand, glimpses of a complete life, where love gets us so comfortable that all we’re left with are the good memories, spinning in our minds like they’re still our present. I’m happy that you resemble your father so much. I’m happy that you can see him in your own details. I wish I could see my mother through my reflection. I wish, even more, that her eyes could see life through mine. There’s so much I wanted to show her. So many frames I wish were made by her lenses, not mine. But we cannot change the past, much less be prisoners of it. If life is a spiral, I do believe we’re going down, not back.
You never have to apologize to me. If you’re making me from scratch, perhaps it’s because I only come to you in fragments. I hope you don’t mind my different approach. I’m only trying to know you with an honesty that maybe I wouldn’t be able to express face to face. And I must tell you, with no intention of being presumptuous, one more thing that maybe will help you with your image of me. Driving is actually one of the only things in my life I don’t question my skills about. I may sound too childish, but cars were my main reason to go to Japan. A passion I’ve been feeding since I was a little boy. Those engines are magical, and I’m a shallow piece of a man for loving them so much. That said, a road trip is totally possible, and I’d love to have you as my co-pilot. I’m sure your company would fill any place with many interesting opinions, and your songs would delight my ears, as your words do my eyes.
If reading my recommendation was the best part of your day, reading your response was the best part of mine. I’m really glad you enjoyed it. I wouldn’t know how to proceed if you didn’t. Now I know we share much more than a taste for letters, lights, and thunderstorms. I hope we can, one day, discuss every purple line you’ve marked in your copy. My pages almost turned entirely green from so many markings. I love annotating my books, especially sticking those colorful Post-it notes on my favorite pages, hoping I’ll never lose them. I want to keep them always within sight, like everything I love dearly. As for your favorite poem, I can only wonder why that choice. Are my wonders too far away? Are they something you can relate to? I have the feeling that you, for sure, could change anything you touch or look at. Not by burning it, but by seeing it. Truly seeing it, as it deserves to be seen. So hold your fingers strong and far enough from the trigger, as I believe that your silver heart may be able to do so much more than burning what comes close to it.
My favorite poem, by the way, was Beloved, and I’ll transcribe my green-highlighted parts so that you may read me as I’ve read you.
“Every time you touched me I hummed like a lyre, my body taught like a bow ready for violence, waiting for cruelty. […] How I stripped myself bare for you; fell apart like a prayer, in the hands of God. O, I could never explain why there was always this between us: this distance we dare not name. […] After all, you could describe the wound, but never how it made you feel. A sword right between your ribs, and in your hands the colour of blood. In your mouth, the taste of copper. I thought so many things, & never said a single one aloud. I opened and closed for you like confession. I sunk my teeth into anything soft & weak enough to forgive me it. How your skin holds the shape of my mouth like memory. For I could have devoured anything and still have been starving. Longing is so different when you are born hungry. Not everything is a matter of definition. Not everything is a metaphor for something different. Look at all this ruin. How much devastation your hands could create. If you let them. If you could forgive them in the end. […] If Cain invented unkindness, then we were the first to call its name. […] I still can’t touch it gently. You know that I’m a creature of desire: I know nothing but to take & keep taking. So when God asks me about love, I respond with cruelty. I know no other answer, I know no other question. I’m hot steel in the forger’s hands. I know all the ways already that love can be the wound, I want to see, at last, how love can be the healing.”
She was cut so deep that love and violence became synonymous. “A sword right through your ribs.” To her, loving is bruising, and she “waited for violence” every time he touched her because that’s all he ever did. She looked at him like he couldn’t love her any other way than leaving wounds all over her being. Oh, the power our hands carry to destroy if we let them. Can you give something different than what you’ve received for so long? Now look at her, searching for something weak to sink her teeth into, unable to touch gently, unable to fulfill her need to keep taking and taking. Someone who doesn’t know how to love without turning cruel. But she ends it with hope, looking for a love that’s different. Now I leave you to wonder why that one was my choice. Is there hope for your fingers to not pull the trigger, Silver Girl? Is there hope for my hands to touch without wounding? Is there a version of us who won’t be afraid to hurt?
I promise I’ll give you my opinions on your book and your songs as soon as I can. I got so anxious to write back to you, already hoping to read more of you when you answer. Thank you for sharing one of your favorites with me. I’m honored to have the privilege, and I promise I’ll be as kind and attentive as you were to my suggestion. It’s always a pleasure, Silver Girl.
— Stranger.
I could never be a judgmental person, stranger. I'm more of a curious, analytical soul, and I desperately need to question every single thing that has ever landed on this earth. As I've never experienced quietness inside my head, I'm also unable to accept silence as an answer to my doubts. I can't promise that I won't try to analyze every vowel and every consonant you write, waiting for the moment you stumble, but I promise, I really do, that I won't be condemning. My brother says I'm like a roadside dog: I never intend to bite, I'm just afraid to accept the bone. But if my humble opinion has any worth to you, I must say you've been my favorite writer lately — I could never ignore your words.
Sometimes, I feel like I'm writing too much, and I stop, and other times, I feel like I'm writing too little, somehow not enough compared to the sea of thoughts your letters have been making me swim through. I'm still adapting to this digital correspondence thing, and, moreover, to the strange urge to tell you everything. I guess people really do tend to be more honest in letters, like you said before. And it's different, because I'm such a locked room with a broken door; you can usually spy through the crack in the wood, but never completely access what you saw.
So, no, I don't mind the way you decided to make yourself known to me. I'd say you almost remind me of the Phantom of the Opera. I know your skin is probably not falling into pieces, and your face might not look like a bare skull, but you're a masquerade poet, except I'm not really scared of you. Well, that rhymed. I rhyme a lot from time to time, don't I? My mother calls me Shakespeare every time I do that, but it's always mockery, not an intended compliment. Which is perfectly fine. I don't chase her approval either, but can you understand that a place where I'm allowed to write is the best chance of getting to know me for who I am, and not who I try to be?
I wish your mother could see every part of the world you wanted to show her. I'm sure she would love seeing life the way you do. You said you were not much of a spiritual person, but I am, and I truly believe they never really leave our side. However, it is, indeed, a strange, hollow, incomplete feeling. Yesterday I was writing about how weird it is to feel that the only person who knows me in a way nobody else ever will is now a ghost, but even though he couldn't be around to see who I've grown into, I don't feel like he missed anything. I truly think he knows about every single step. And perhaps your mother does, too. I don't want to be invasive or cross a line I know by heart is dangerous, but would you tell me about your favorite memory of your mom? I really, really would love to know more about her.
I wouldn't call you shallow for loving your cars, silly! I'm obsessed with vintage models, but my admiration apparently was never strong enough to make me a good driver. My dream car? A 1978 Cadillac Eldorado. White, or baby blue. I'd be the most insufferable woman in town. I think the 1970 Chevy Impala is pretty cute as well. It seems like something only a special agent from the FBI would pursue. I have a strict — yet messy — system of annotating books. I mark everything I think is relevant purple, and I underline twice what speaks to my heart. Post-it notes usually work as reminders for research, and those sticky bookmarks are my compass to find the right parts. Speaking of bookmarks, can you believe I've been using a credit card? I wish it were aesthetically pleasing, but I'll just take whatever is closest to my hands at the moment.
Being aware of your poem of choice, it is now my turn to wonder. Are you the sheep who had to behave like a wolf? Nature's made killer, aiming for blood while spending eternity dying of thirst? Tell me honestly, would you hurt yourself avoiding to hurt? Oh, the many things life puts us through and makes us feel like animals in distress, whose instinct is either to slaughter or be slaughtered by the gentlest hand. I think you were a consequence, not a written destiny. But your consciousness speaks louder than any of your needs. If I were to be an animal, guided by instinct, as much as I wanted to be aggressive, some big, intimidating beast, I unfortunately function much more like a deer. I react out of fear, and I run like there's no tomorrow. Sometimes I get paralyzed. Perhaps the trigger is always pointing at my own chest, and God, I fucking hate a bounty hunter.
I like to believe there's a place where cruelty won't reign. I like to build this place, brick by brick, day by day, like an architect overseeing the construction. In an ideal world, my only job would be to design, but I realize that, in the adaptation required for survival, I need to put myself to work. You were absolutely right, stranger. I can change anything by seeing it as it is, but do you know how criminal it can be to be seen? I've been sentenced to death more times than I can count. So, for trying to see you, I hope you don't condemn me just as much.
I'm already looking forward to your opinions, but even more to whatever else you'll decide to tell me along the way. Waiting for your words to rescue me from my own,
— Silver Girl
Anonymous Coward · 3mo
Don’t people look so much more honest in letters? To you, I’m the honestest. I’ve never been good with my words. I fear, actually, that I’m a little too non-verbal, except for my writing, which has always seemed like an escape. If I can’t write, I can’t feel balance, I can’t be free. And when it comes to freedom, I see what you mean when you say that freedom and love are synonyms — I couldn’t agree more. But I’ve been in cages many times, and I’d be lying if I told you that I didn’t make myself comfortable in them. Maybe I’m not a wild thing. I can be comfortable anywhere, even in the worst situations, and I think that’s a defect that bruises me and only me. I do agree with you, also, when you say that some things about me will never be said. Not because I intend to hide myself from the world, much less from you, but because there are some things so deep that even my writing, or my music — my deepest forms of expression — can’t translate yet. I’ve been writing pretty raw these last couple of days, and I still seem to have not reached the bottom. Do we ever get to the bottom, Nora? Or do we always run in circles, chasing our own tails, carrying our leaves in spirals of unsaid words? My leaf is someone who left me, not by choice, many years ago. Even now, it seems like she’s still with me, as I carry our memories around in every beauty I see. Grief can be religious depending on how you hold it. But my leaf is not a burden, can you understand that? I believe carrying the blood of someone you miss so much is almost like having them with you, and that keeps me going in the search for something better, as you said. And no, as an Eastern European, you don’t seem very American to me. You’re way too opinionated — and I say that as a compliment. As I write to you, the rain pours down my window, and I wonder what the weather is like where you are. I do love a thunderstorm, Silver Girl. And I do love the Japanese neon lights. I don’t know about everything, but certainly a lot happens in Tokyo. I hope you can see it someday. Perhaps I could show you some places I’ve been to when I was around. I do have a feeling we would be good trip companions. As for the guilty part… Guess I’ll take the appeal. I have a feeling you might be a rather interesting judge.
I’ve been reading a lot and not much at the same time, as I only read when my head feels perfectly clear enough to enjoy it. Are you aware of a certain vampire, perhaps? His story is mostly told through letters, and maybe that format gave me more inspiration than I thought. But if I could give you a recommendation, if you allow me that much, I’d present you with “Slaughterhouse,” by Yves Olade. That gave me a lot of inspiration for my writing, too. I’m not sure if that romantic, raw, and bruised kind of poetry is your style, but it certainly is mine. I beg your pardon in advance if the recommendation doesn’t suit your taste. I hope, however, that there’s something in it you’ll like.
https://payhip.com/b/RKhp (You can download it for free, the author herself made it possible.)
I’m not a very spiritual guy, but I do hope your wishes come true. Delighted, as usual, and anxiously awaiting your answer.
— Stranger
You are a writer. I still don't know — since all I have for now are your letters — whether you're a good, or a bad one, but truly a writer at heart, without any doubt. I know that because I can tell you choose your words with so much of your soul. I was supposed to tell you that when you said you were able to relate to Paul Varjak, but I was trying to measure my expression so that my thoughts wouldn't become a mess of words. Let me guess. Are you, perhaps, a soft-spoken, unhurried talker, whose fingers catch fire whenever upon a piece of paper? Like me, are you often called quiet when your mind has never been devoid of sound? I, myself, don't think I'll ever reach the bottom of everything I left behind in diary entries and a dry throat, but something tells me that this is the very thing you will always be looking for. Please, correct me if I'm wrong. Oh, stranger... you have no idea how much I can understand that. I allow you to imagine me sighing, loud and clear, when my eyes met that one specific paragraph. Have you ever caught yourself missing your someone so deeply, so excruciatingly, that you can even look at yourself in the mirror with love? I see my father in my bony hands, and in this crooked little thing in my lower teeth. I could never care enough to fix it, but only because it has the same look as his. My eyes, my hair. All the expressions on my face and the horrors inside my head seems like an echo he sent to me long ago. And, I see that, just like you, this is my greatest source of fuel. Some days, it's more like a forest fire than a leaf, and I think you might know exactly what I mean. I'm trying to guess where you're from. I do have a few ideas in my brain, but I haven't decided your origins yet. That sounded funny; like I'm making you from scratch. I'm terribly sorry for that. About traveling and companionship: are you a good driver, stranger? I'm awfully bad behind the wheel, but if you take the lead, I promise I can be very entertaining in the passenger seat, giving the directions and choosing the songs. Is a roadtrip across Japan a thing?! Seems like quite the scenario to me.
Right now, as I write, the rain is also pouring down my window, and I just finished the book you gave me. When I started, it wasn't raining yet, only windy outside, so it felt as though my reading had naturally found the exact place the weather thought it should inhabit. As I understand music is very important to you, I couldn't not share the record that kept me company throughout the whole book. It was Ghosts of the Great Highway by Sun Kil Moon, and I think it was a very nice fit. I don't know if you have listened to it before, but, if you haven't, I hope it becomes as meaningful to you as it is to me. Finally clearing up your doubt, poetry is actually my favorite form of writing, especially when it's romantic, raw, and bruised, as you described. So, yeah... you couldn't have made a better choice. Good, good job. Reading these poems was, by far, the best part of my day, and I can totally understand why you'd feel inspired by her words. I did, too. If you asked me to sum up my thoughts in only one word, I'd say: desperate. This is desperate writing; I feel desperate reading it. My heart made itself audible through every comma and every full stop. And it was amazing. I wish I could show you every passage I highlighted with a neon, purple marker, explaining, word for word, why this or that struck me harder than the others. But, for now, I'd like to share my favorite poem with you. It was Haruspice, and I'll quote my favorite lines, just like I did in the margins:
"I imagine my heart a revolver [...] how, if
there are any miracles left at all it is this: that I am still capable of love. That I can still rest & unrest my finger on the trigger without firing." "[...] everything I touch catches fire straight away." "[...] how I want to live gentle in that space forever, so beautiful & unblemished. Holy as the calf shot open on white stone. Clean dead through the eye & worthy to be devoured. The first meal of some thirsty God: he who does all his hunting for sport." "How I long to be as jealous as gold on his tongue. To listen to my body & take what is offered. To harvest only what is good & burn the rest." "What is your heart if not wine-dark? What is your mouth but the memory of copper, the taste of water in an iron cup?" "[...] destruction became a kind of prayer. How you prayed it every night. The blood of your fathers rising wet from fields of wheat." "I moved a mountain with my wanting. I razed the earth. & still, how when I call to her, she speaks to me."
As usual, I'll let you wonder why. Can you show me your favorite poem and leave me wondering why, too? I'll wait anxiously. Since you shared a piece of prose that's important to you, I'm going to share one that's important to me. My favorite author is Richard Siken, and he just released a new book after many years. I haven't finished it yet — I've only read the first ten pages or so — but I always savor his work slowly. The name is I Do Know Some Things, but I think you should read War of the Foxes. When you said that grief can be religious depending on how you hold it, I thought of him immediately, since it's his (un)favorite theme to write about. Give it a chance when you have the time :)
You can find it here: https://oceanofpdf.com/authors/richard-siken/pdf-epub-war-of-the-foxes-download/
Now, once again, I leave my words in your care, and my curiosity in your hands.
Allowing my codename to settle upon me,
— Silver Girl
Anonymous Coward · 3mo
Hi. Mali here. My question is: If you’re at the beach and see this veeeeeeery beautiful and sparkly rose quartz.. you take it home OR return to the ocean? Think as a witch and also a human.
Damn. As a mere human being, I'd surely take it, as you know I have a crystal collection. But as a witch, I think I'd have two different approaches to this situation: I'd either give it back to the sea or simply admire it, because it's perfectly healthy to remember that you can find beauty in something without needing to possess it, or I'd think it was calling me, that it was meant to find its way into my hands. Sometimes nature really does give us little gifts, like an old friend! So, either way, I guess my intuition would give me the answer beforehand.
Anonymous Coward · 3mo
Hello there, Silver Girl. If you allow me, I must say I’m delighted by your answers and by your self-consciousness. Are you also the type of girl who’s afraid to be kept in a cage? It’s a very comforting movie, I’d say. I now see why that’s your favorite, and I think I can relate a lot to Varjak. A guy who, when in love, would follow the object of his affection around without questioning it. Do you think you’d run away from love if it were meant to imprison you? I don’t think I would, and that’s my honestest opinion, as you required. There are a lot of songs I love to the bone, but since I never play around when it comes to music, or my honesty, I’d have to answer “Something to Believe In,” by Aqualung. I won’t explain that choice, but I have the feeling that through the lyrics you’ll be able to read me well, as I hope to have read you through yours. I wouldn’t describe myself as someone who grew up under the lights. Maybe that’s why Fallen Angels feels like a distant adventure to me. Actually, I’m more of a mountain-region, cold-weather, old-castles kind of guy. Not by choice, just to be clear, but I’d say my family suits me. Even after I’ve moved out of my home country, I still prefer places where the clouds are always heavy. Too attached, perhaps? But I’ve been in NYC far too often, and the lights and the movement are, for sure, something to fall in love with. Have you ever been to Tokyo, Nora? That’s another crowded city of lights that I think you’d appreciate just as I did, since I’ve noticed you have a sharp eye. I can’t deny I also feel like I’m writing you a letter. Maybe the books I’ve been reading recently gave me that inspiration. Or maybe I just wanna know more about you. Would you deem me guilty of it?
Since you named me Stranger, I must embrace this code name. That way you’ll know it’s me, as I know it’s you. I hope my letter finds you well, Silver Girl. I’ll be waiting for your answer, as usual.
— Stranger
Stranger! Hello again. As I'm writing back to you, the clock marks exactly 03:03 a.m. I just made a wish, but I can't tell you what I wished for, or else it won't come true, and I very much hope it does. You know, when I was very young, still only a child, my father and I would lie in the garden of our house while he set up small traps with birdseed to lure the birds closer so we could observe them. They would fall for the trap, and then my father would open the cage almost immediately, letting them fly free again. He used to say that you could never put something wild in a cage, that such things are meant to be free. It changed something in my brain chemistry. I like things to be free, stranger. So, yes, I'm terribly afraid of being kept behind a barrier where no one opens the door, nor appreciates my way of living for what it is. I wouldn't say I run from love, though. I think real, real love is freedom. So, if I feel imprisoned, then perhaps I shouldn't be occupying that space in the first place. Does that makes any sense to you? I hope so. I just listened to your song, by the way. I feel like it isn't difficult to create fragments of who you are in my head, yet I, at the same time, feel like there are some things about you that will simply never be said. You try hard, and you try your best. A friend of mine, a long time ago, said that to get through the hard days, we had to take "ant steps", always carrying a little piece of a leaf as motivation, fueled by the hope that something better awaited us at the next stop on the road. What would your leaf be? I'm really curious to know. I don't know if I've been coming across as an American — I think I'd kill myself if I were — but my hometown also feels like heavy clouds, and endless thunderstorms. The thing is, I'm just like a moth, drawn to the light in a way that burns. That being said, I'd love to be properly introduced to Japan. You know what they say about everything happening in New York? In my opinion, everything is actually happening in Tokyo, but maybe I only feel that way because I'm not there.
I'd probably find you guilty, stranger... but I think I'd let you appeal. Would you grant me the pleasure of going through your most recent books? I want to know what your mind echoes right now, and perchance, how much of your effort comes from literature, and how much from your desire to know me. Until we meet again, take care!
Anonymous Coward · 3mo
Breakfast at Tiffany’s… good choice. Visually, I wouldn’t have associated that movie with you. I think I’ll have to watch it to understand that connection, since I never have. I asked myself the same question after asking you, and realized I didn’t know the answer. But I think Fallen Angels would be a good choice. It’s the kind of movie you watch once in your life (at least for me) but I remember feeling like I was floating inside it, just like you described. And what about a song, Nora? What song would you use to describe yourself? I have a feeling that answer will come easily to you too.
Looking forward to your answer!
I think most people normally wouldn't, really! Were you expecting a darker answer? I dare you to watch the movie as soon as you can and bring me your thoughts and your honestest opinions. I really like Fallen Angels, stranger. For me, it's a movie to watch more than often, at least if you live in a big city surrounded by lights and find loneliness in everything except the chaos that surrounds you. Disturbing, right? And you got me there. I think I'm so self-conscious that I could make thousands of playlists to describe me and still it wouldn't be enough, but tonight I'll leave you with Silver Girl by Fleetwood Mac. What about yourself?
I feel like we're exchanging letters. Sending mine your way on the wings of a black swan.