Friday, May 04, 2007

To Fernando. A Fleeting Thing.

Dear Fernando,

I received your letter in the midst of a storm that was still as steady as it was when you wrote. It was strange because we don't usually have those connections to bind us together. But, this time, the rain was everywhere and when I read your words it was like the echo of my thoughts. I stood inside a crowded building for most of the rainfall and only stepped outside at the end of the night, when it was slowing down and passing by.

I spent the whole evening prior with people from my work. We went to some cheap bar and sat on rickety stools talking about nothing. My attention was drawn several times to the TV's on my left (and right) and despite how hard I tried not to look at them; they were at least visual stimulation (which was more than I could say for my company). They spoke of the commercials on said televisions and drank their beers heartily, slapping hands after each pint downed. And I sat there and thought of all the other places I might be but for the one person I thought I might speak to.

Needless to say, it was a disaster. And when I got home, drunker than I intended to be and muttering to myself beneath my breath, I caught sight of your letter peeking out of the corner of my mailbox. I inhaled a wet breath and snatched the soiled paper eagerly. And when I sat down inside, full of all the emptiness that I had absorbed, I would have cried if I didn't have the solid, written possibility of really interacting with someone.

I had stood there, infront of the people I know, looking at them blankly while they spoke because they were so passionless and so bleary-eyed. The wet letter I held in my hand was a blessing. You spoke of Catherine, of someone who held you close, who saw you for who you were and afterwards even wrote to you. You are the only person I write to and I hoped that was not the case. You are so daring, Fernando You throw everything you are to the wind and you let that wind carry you into the arms of so many people.They all fall into you so impetuously, blazing with the need to know you, to hold you- even for a short time. You are always so consumed and part of me feels like this might be a flaw but part of me longs for someone to be immersed within, some sort of distraction.

I suppose I had you to distract me from the mudanity of the daily- at least for a brief while. And we still recall those long days of discussion where literature was always number one. Creativity is a fleeting thing. I suppose you must grab it when you can.



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