Isn’t it a beautiful thing to sometimes be, for a moment, changed, broke, absolutely not you? To look at your own body and feel that at any moment, you might shatter, your heart might beat itself out of your chest, or, your flesh will turn to liquid, and all that will be left is that heavy, gaping feeling of fear in your throat. But it’s beautiful to feel so different, to be free of the awareness of “what’s to do” that comes with having been yourself for so long. And the whole world changes when you are so changed; the depth of dusk becomes a lighter, more fleeting blue from outside the window, as though it’s telling you to no longer be afraid of the dark.
But as you know, everything eventually comes to and end, and the magic fades to a sore neck, old age, and whatever else.
Oh, but you should see the ink fades as it’s washed away by the water! Or how, in the instant a dried crumb hits the water, it blossoms into a perfect poised half-sphere. Somehow they litter the surface of the sink, each drop with the same intent as the animated credits of a movie. Such effortless perfection.
Well, I suppose if this letter was born from such a passing place, I might as well let it go.