Tag Archives: Letters to Asher

Letters to Asher (Letter 2)


-A-

I wish there were a literary equivalent of a dramatic unveiling. Some gesture that could be captured in the curve of a ‘V’ to illuminate the way a hand can swoop down, grab a curtain, and then swoop up again to reveal a grand truth. Humans seem to be cursed with this endless pursuit of truth, of knowledge. We have created an entire field around it, with such precision of the word being granted to having a sliding scale, from theory to fact. It gives us a strange sense of superiority to know something, when in reality we are simple little dolls, thrumming to the beat of music we refuse to listen to. Day in and day out I am concerned with the mundane aspect of my own existence. Convinced that whatever psychological turmoil is seizing my heart at that moment is of such brilliant importance that it is vital that I write it down, capture it in some way. Even in my egotistical rages, some semblance of me can appreciate the irony of wanting to capture these fleeting moments in the belief that they are eternal.

Tonight you spoke of cowardice. You used a slightly more vernacular vocabulary, but I’m sure it will quirk your smile a little bit to see me wrap it in the pretty bow of eloquence. Life, in this little ones humble opinion, is simply too short to not use as many words as possible. Smarter creatures than I uttered ‘you will find poetry nowhere if you do not carry some of it with you’.  Are you bemused by this idea? I am so curious about you. We are all cursed with chasing after anything that is difficult. I found myself fiercely defending a person not telling the truth about their emotions because for so long I was that figure, the joker thinking it was their pretty words that made people laugh and not their very existence. Siddharta explained that you must go through life with the conviction that everyone around you has achieved perfect enlightenment, and that any behavior towards you is done in order to help you achieve it as well. I try to hold on to this thought when frustrated, angry, or sad. Breathing in and out and learning to practice patience, to smile when I am angry, to control my emotions and outbursts to the point of knowing how they shape me, instead of waking up one day, twenty years down the line, and realizing that I have no idea how I got there.

If I were to assume that you were perfectly enlightened then, what would I learn from you? I would learn to never shy away from how I am feeling, you saw my cowardice for what it was and held it up in ugly light. It is hardest to see your faults held in hands that you find completely perfect, there is nowhere else to look. You forced me to recognize my own worth, my own brilliance. It was the cruelest line you wrote to me in that letter, those compulsory days of solitude which we failed at so miserably. So much of that letter made me taste bitterness, realization that I had unfairly condemned you and worse off, reduced myself to this pathetic figure that I had always despised. My biggest fear is to realize that I am not brave, that in reality I am mundane, a person so castrated by trepidation that I lose out on anything worthwhile. Cowardice may not be honorable, but it is certainly safe. You always know where cowardice will take you. I was a coward when it came to love before because I was so fearful of being found out. If you forever hold people at arms length, all they see is a mystery and not a scared little girl begging for an excuse to just breathe the way she wants to. The former is much easier to maintain, albeit lonelier. I want a brave love, a person that is mine, that is proud of me and cannot wait to hold my hand. I refuse, however, to give to this love in any way. I tip toe around the ugly parts, soothe tempers and bite my tongue when upset. I must be easy, I must be simple, I must be perfect for whomever is laying next to me at the time. Once the first flowers fade I am already finding excuses to leave, discovering cracks in what I had painted to be a perfect picture, pitfalls that I do not even consider attacking. The only celebration we have, however, is that moment when we realize that we can no longer live in constant fear, that the darkness is suffocating, not soothing, and that with our hair a mess, and our eyes still sleepy, we grab whatever weapon we can and charge forward. I have found this lesson in you as well, because if you are lost, then the ground will shake and split open and I will fall in. So I will give you everything I have, I have no other option.

Finally, in you I learn what it means to rise to a challenge, confront demons. Force myself to stand up in the back of the truck and scream into the wind because I demand to be heard.

I love you madly, in that way that begs of you not love in return but rather, your scorn and your anger. I wish with fervent necessity to have that which is most base about you, if it is simply thrown at me with little regard to where it lands is fine. I demand you, every time I wrap thin fingers around yours it is with the childish hope that I will be able to capture some part of your essence that I swear is hiding from me. If I could have you in your weakest moments, when you are angry and out of control, when your perversions have captured you and you are enraged and engorged by things you cannot comprehend I will be happy. When you bend over me, naked and sullied with the dirty interactions of two people laughing at the cosmos with desperate desire and your eyes intensify while you look at me, give me that in all its completion. Give me that, and I will stop wreaking havoc on your perfect plans (I swear). I want to drag you outside in the rain and the mud, I don’t want to taste your lips in sweet kisses but rather tear at your skin until you bleed, broken and despondent. I want you, all your stupidity and imperfections, your anger, your repressed need to feel sanctioned and approved, your disastrous belief that you will find immortality through beauty.

Give me every dark corner of yourself and I swear I will be happy

I love you today.

Matilda


Letters to Asher (A Series)


asher

His name should not be capitalized. Not out of lack of respect, admiration, or love. Capitalizing a noun gives the assumption that it is tied to something concrete, or understood. He is none of these things.

Heaven has either decided to curse me or the fates have an extraordinarily cruel sense of humor. I have dreamt of him, tasted him for years, reached between my legs to feel that prohibitive moisture rise forward at the sensation of him being near me and yet, he lies next to me in this white bed and my hands seem to tremble in fear of their own desire. I attempt, over and over again, to explain to him how I feel. As if this simple naive art will be enough to enthrall and overwhelm him just for some measure of time. He’s never shown any form of terror to me, yet he has so much of mine. Those cold, breatheless nights when I wake up feeling that my life has ended, I am resentful of the fact that his hand calms me down.

If I were to leave him (or more likely, him me) would I have shaped him? Carved any small piece of him in a new way? I’m afraid of walking somewhere and not leaving any discernible trace, even though I may have lost my soul among those footsteps.

It was Borges, in his interminably frustrating wisdom that said “To fall in love is to create a religion with a fallible God”. I am raising my legs as temples to him and rewriting every book I own so they will sing his praises, and just like every other God ever imagined, he is above the clamor and the rude interruptions to his existence. But I would rather dedicate my life to the blinding slavery of faith to him than to exist as a cynic without him.

Matilda 


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