Letters stuck somewhere
I don’t mind that the letters I’m expecting don’t arrive – and, similarly, that my letters haven’t reached their targets either. The love that lies alone in thinking of the other, in reporting to her, in selecting an appropriate format and envelope, finally in obtaining a stamp and – perhaps after considering to first copy some of the insights produced in it – letting the letter go, that love remains untouched as long as the recipient knows that I have traversed this procedure, the ritual of the sender. To think of her: also without reply, a letter is a dialogue. (Which fragments will I reveal? Any occurrence that connects to conversations we have had? What will she think of this? (This is just like me recognising the everyday or looking at myself through my faraway friends’ eyes and peculiarities.)) We know we are present. We imagine what has been written to us: as any imagination, this will always transcend that which is likely so as to carefully enter the realm of fiction (certain intimations, a love confession, the death of a friend, an invite for a holiday together). I only fail to surprise myself, know the static projections I maintain a little too well. My friends‘ change is what I cannot produce, and because I cannot, their change is why eventually, I do miss their letters.