A LETTER OF MANY TRUTHS

My dear, perceptive reader, perhaps I have been too liberal with the words musings or thoughts. Perhaps what goes through my head are not thoughts after all, perhaps they are merely thoughtlets, stray clouds that pass across the blue sky of consciousness. Perhaps you think me pretentious and stuck up. On the other hand, perhaps you don’t. Perhaps you even like me a little. Perhaps by virtue of my letters to you, for that is what this address holds, my letters to you, you have formed a picture of me. Perhaps the picture you formed is accurate, perhaps it isn’t. Either way, I must thank you, my dear reader; for you have read the outpourings of my soul, and stuck by me no matter what kind of drivel I subject you too.

You see, that is the beauty of the letter, that sheet of paper on which there is a real script, a real hand, in real ink. It leaves a lot to the imagination of the reader, to construct the writer out of naught but that sheet of paper. While dealing with a letter, you must treat all on that sheet as fiction, and all in your head as reality. What was the writer thinking when he wrote that letter? Was he thinking about you, its grateful recipient? Was his mind wandering across plains uncharted? Look at the strong hand, the words fluid. Surely the writer was in good health. Or perhaps he wasn’t. Perhaps he didn’t want his reader to worry about him.

A letter is that medium which allows dreams to come closer to reality, for what is reality? It certainly isn’t one fixed, immovable, stolid object. Indeed, it is fluid, like the clay of a kindergartener, molded to suit ones tastes. Your reality is shaped by the tint of your eyes, by your hopes, your dreams, and your memories. And if a letter causes your memories to change, to come closer to your dreams, then that is the way life should be. What happens when you are confronted by the fact that your dreams are…just that..dreams?? We live after all in a sea of perennial hope, and life is richer for a shattered dream than no dream at all.

One may say that in today’s digital world, with instant messaging at ones fingertips, we have no need for the institution of the letter. We may know all about the one with whom we converse in a matter of minutes. To such, I say, perhaps you miss the point. This is not about knowledge, but about that which sustains us all, our imagination. IM is too clean, too sterile; it doesn’t inspire one’s imagination the way a letter does. Have you never dreamt when you were a little kid?? Never dreamt of your life that shall be, of the people you shall meet?? Well, here is your chance to merge that dream with the people you did meet. A little indulgence in fantasy never hurt anyone.

But this is not an exhortation to dream big. It is one to dream small. Dream about what should have been, not what is. Dream about the next person you want to meet. Dream about how an old friend you haven’t seen in ages would be like now. Dream about what you would say when you found the person you know you want to spend the rest of your life with. Dream about that person from your past, whom you wish you hadn’t hurt, or about that girl to whom you wish you’d said more. Dream about your fiftieth birthday, and who you want to spend it with. Dream about that day when you are eighty, when a chess game is all you crave for, a chess game with a friend, a friend who once, wrote you a letter.

Dream about me. My letters to you contain a wealth of information about me. My dear reader, you and me, we have a past. Do not forget it. If I ever hurt you, my dear reader, forgive, but do not forget, and be assured I won’t either. If I ever delighted you, treasure that memory for ever. Let your memories of me get mixed up with the way you wanted me to be. Bring this image of me into your present. Take it with you into your future. This is my legacy to you.

So, my dear reader, this, and all that came before, and all that shall come are my letters to you. It is a letter of truth, certainly. But that truth is for you to see as you wish. Read them, and form your construct of me. Make me a prince, or make me a pauper. Make me a poet, or an ignoramus. Mold your memory of me to any form you wish, for that part of me which I’m surrendering to you by means of this letter, that part of me in your head, is for you to do as you please. And send me your letters, so that I may do the same. Rejoice in the fantasies of the mind. But tarry awhile, and ponder this, dream free, for your dream is your own, and none else can shape it. It is yours and yours alone. Until next time, my dear reader, fare thee well!!!

THE WORD UNSPOKEN

My dear, perceptive reader; I was watching 'The Wonder Years' last evening and one episode in particular inspired me to pen down my first piece of verse in a long, long time. Now, i realize it isn't anything great, no rhyme, no meter, just vers libre, but i believe it says something.

Poets write, bards sing
Men from world over come… come to hearken
For that is the power of the word written
It can and does make gloomy rooms undarken
And you, my lad, strapping and young
Where goes you now? Partake you not
of words that drip like honey from their tongue?
Nay, say you? the sun is for souls unfrittered?
Words are fair, indeed…
Of rainbows and clouds they sing
But what knoweth they of the heart
That like a chime bell rings
Words brighten a room, say you?
Perhaps you speak the truth
But what, ask I can the word do
That a soft hand on the back cannot?
Leave I my heart in the frigid air of winter
Warm it certainly your words do not
Life is but a tapestry, words the dye
But look, look at the patterns beneath
And for my part say I,
Blow out the candles, let the room darken
And let me hear in the night the word unspoken.

Until next time then, goodbye, my dear reader.