it has been too long
my fingers do not remember how to hold a pen
and write.
there is some ancient muscle memory
but as memories very often are
this one too is feeble
weak. weak is what it is.
this is supposed to be a love letter
but my heart is heavy.
that perhaps is a good thing.
perhaps the most honest and real and true
love letters can only be written with a heavy heart
and by those who are in possession of one.
this heaviness focusses me.
it numbs me to every sight, sound, scent and sensation lurking around.
this heaviness forces me to only pay attention to this singular, dull throb. somewhere to the left of centre of my being.
a steady, dull throb. like a primitive tribal beat.
and in that dull, steady, unwavering primitive throb, i find my true primitive self.
in that throb of a moment, i become the beat and the drum.
dried leather pulled forcefully over a coarse, unpolished, unrefined wooden tube. hastily stitched up at both ends.
the leather isn't taut and shiny. it is loose. and it is wrinkly.
it is indifferent.
it is me.
i am the throb and the beat.
i am the primitive tribal drum.
i am the catalyst and i am the action and the cause.
i am the reaction. i am the chain of events set into motion.
i am the hand that strikes and i am the sound which emanates.
i am controlled and i am the crescendo.
but
this is supposed to be a love letter.
yet i am with a heavy heart as i write this.
perhaps the most honest and real and true love letters can only be written with a heavy heart.
nonetheless, this is a love letter. from me to you.
and yet in this instant throb of a persistent moment, i am going to write and think about me.
it is only fair that i get to know me
before i claim to love you.
this is supposed to be a love letter
unlike any other ever written.
this is a love letter that will
end
up being just like all the innumerable ones
that were never written.
never written.
only recited in the minds of people
who only ever partially existed for themselves.
written in the mind of that which lies to the left of centre.
written in the mind of that which lies.
lies and hides.
and the more it does the more it reveals.
