Part book review, part earnest love letter, this piece of writing is very close to my heart. I often find myself wistfully inspired when I’m traveling. I had the great pleasure of reading Nocturnes by Kazuo Ishiguro (rented from Austin Public Library!) in one sitting on the plane. Originally composed as a text I couldn’t send, this love letter 2.0 will hopefully strike a chord regardless of your romantic affiliation. Enjoy!
Finally finished Nocturne. Very odd and dreamy… Floated in and out of my life like a languid summer’s afternoon tryst. How odd – these fictional lives that just feel all too believable.
Surrounded by those with quite a bit more on their shoulders, and find myself overcome with the desire to ask… Does it hurt? Does it hurt to be closer to death? Does the weight of the accumulated years feel as heavy as mine? Or is there a point when the body succumbs to a kind of resigned restlessness, surrenders to carrying it all day in and day out?
I often feel like I’m so close to death, but I have only these 26 years to blame. Storied and addled and half dreamed, half remembered. Why is it my life feels so full? Oh, I can find respite in a cup of coffee or even the comfort of you, my love, but I can’t pretend like the horizon doesn’t loom over me, transfixed.
I keep believing that I am exempt, I am better, I am special, I am free. Should I just accept we all feel this way but only the true fools make it to the other side… to gratification?
Words, not read, not seen, spoken, shouted, sang, What does it matter to a heart that grows wearier and wearier, taking age so seriously – taking it all in so seriously?
How can any memory be better when in the end all cease to exist?
I keep running around that argument I gave you that just by existing we all hold a place of significance. And just think how many of those imagined beings of our fiction grow to greater resources and power than even our accomplished few. The true immigrants, fiction, stealing places in our hearts and minds right from within us. And doesn’t it all feel so human?
My hands ache to write and everyday I hope the click-clacking of my newfound voice will ease the tension in my jaw. But still, but yet, the seriousness of it all ties me up so fast. Bound to some passing worry or another. As if it was designed to be a life filled with worry! But here I find in my most serious of moments a true piece of frivolity – to think of living a life designed.
The only thing that makes the weight of each passing breath a little more tolerable is the ache I feel in my heart when I miss you. That misery reminds me that there are places beyond the chasm of my mind and these transitory ghosts that inhabit me, called thoughts or daydreams or religions or hours. Somehow that lurching pain I feel in the absence of you gives my moments meaning, and that, I realize is what most humans truly desire. A sense of purposeful longing, one that has a name, and I’m ever so lucky despite my age or lack thereof that it does have a name, and that is You. Wonderful, beautiful, You.
Maybe one day, you and I will have a library dedicated to our love. It seems fitting, to dedicate a place of knowledge waiting to be fulfilled to what you and I feel for each other, since our love feels more like something to be read than something to be said. A place where you and I can whisper all we’ve learned to whoever chooses to listen, even long after we’re gone. A place where you and I can rest, neatly pressed upon each other like two pages wishing again to be leaves and be believed and to leave with a certain sense of knowing that we are always where we belong and will always have a place where we belong, tucked away together, forever.
Photo Credits: Love Letter by Peter Hellberg
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