Letter 16

Dear Josephine,

How much there is to tell, and how much there is to conceal. Is there always that binary? Tell me: is it false or real? Are quotations needed, even there?

Lately there has been a fusion of days, all slow and long and fast and short, never fully characterized because I barely remember them. I know I enjoyed the contact between my pillow and my ear, but little else seemed to be of note.

Even now, when I set out to write this letter to you, I had a thousand statements I swore I’d hold steadfast to (and not bore you with constant dialogues of “reality” and disappointments with trying to be more alive. See: my body shining brightly).

To the business of letter writing [although it’s not a franchise – these feelings of mine]. Well, since work takes up 40 hours of the 112 hours I am awake, or perhaps I sleep even more than 8 hours a day, I can tell you that there is nothing new to report on that front. I am spending a decent amount of my summer traveling for work, which is frustrating because I am having trouble coordinating important one-on-one time with the people I love. I still walk to work everyday, either organizing mixed cds in my head or day-dreaming. Day-dreaming is a major component of being an INFJ. What can you do? Sometimes fantasy is more interesting than everyday life.

Lately I’ve been watching MTV’s The Paper and it’s causing me to realize I have lost my passion. Can this intangible concept actually be lost? The answer is a resounding yes. I used to breathe writing, used to advocate for a censorless world, and now I have become an automaton and have forgotten the joy of creating, forgotten to remember to hold fast to enjoyable activities. Thank you, MTV and Amanda Lorber. It’s important to never lose that drive, to never forget the importance of expression and doing something you feel you’d die if you couldn’t do it. And censoring (imagine here a judge’s gavel pounding away at art) is a devil in disguise.

Reality television makes me feel old even though twenty-three is just the start of another voyage. Tonight I don’t want to watch television or cook myself pasta. A slight rupture in my tiny universe. The cracks are beginning to show.

What did you say to me recently? “We write to taste life twice, in the moment and in retrospection.” So said your mentor Anais Nin, and so said you. Repetition can equal creation.

You and Anais might be right. But I think life is more than tasting and multiples, and pillows and automatic movements. I have unplayed that movement. I am claiming, not being claimed.

honestly,
l. c.