long time has passed since i received your letter.
don’t hold it against me please; it seems i needed the distance in order to feel everything again in its totality; you have poured your words with such care, and it only felt right to return the same or not at all; and lastly letterwriting seems to require more than an unjust reactive exchange and hopefully this is closer to being just.

there’s an awful amount of sharings i would hope to do and i can only hope.

maybe giving you a picture of my landscape will help, or not. i will do it anyway. oh but there’s so much and not a lot.
maybe the structure of this letter can illustrate the fog that is my landscape. and i use landscape to mean my construction of the world.
i dream of long hallways, and big mansions with rooms at every step. it’s always night in my dreams and there’s never other people. there’s only me, or not even. there’s no narrative aswell (or there’s always a hidden narrative) but i’m always always looking for something and never find it or never know what it is.
many times i have awoken from sleep and proceeded to find the room i saw in a dream, and more times than not i confuse the dream happenings with those of real life. all of these homes i inhabit in dreams are some strange abstractions of my body. as there’s a distance i feel, a wall, a glass with everything that presents outside of me, though i’ve been feeling it less. it’s often like living in an aquarium, a tiny microcosm which undeniably is the world to the fish but it never knows it belongs to the vast nothingness of the ocean. and by nothing i mean everything.
i’m starting to know slowly. sounds are getting less muffled, words have more common meanings, colors more vivid, skin more sensitive, heart more open.

i cannot give, or maybe don’t know what you ask of me even. but i’m trying. i am sure an explanation is a form of closure but i realize we never really end anything. you may only begin and it will forever keep on giving. it’s assuming you want to kill a story. one may never kill a story, to kill a story everything has to die.

you have a tenderness i had yet to witness and be touched by. you dont particularly identify yourself with it, but to me it is your blueprint. *along with a shell of hard crust, which i’m learning is better than walking with an open wound which i do all the time.

you ask me to soothe your questions with answers, but they all lay within you. my attempt will just slightly affirm them at best.
it pains and delights me, the space you possess to hold another in their entirety, to give the warmest bed for them lay on, to hold all their parts and caress them with a such loving hand.
it’s painful, if you don’t know and delightful that i layed in this bed.
when you only know of love that resembles fences and thorns, such warm space can feel alien.
please remember when you plant a whole garden for one to play, to become and to fully extend, carve out space for you aswell.

the past two days i have felt your hands, and i apologize for ever being scared of them. for being scared they would hold me captive. it was never your hands that scared me i realize, it was hands of shadow pasts.

you say you’re unable to express often, yet your eyes weave a whole carpet of love with every look. i have never trusted words, and thank you for allowing me to question them.

you have taught me how a certain anchor in the material is needed for both sky and earth to coexist. this anchor helped me land safely many times, i thank you.

i stand with loads of humility and gratitude, of the parts of me you have witnessed.
but i also ask of you to keep treating the relics of our garden with care, as there are fragile sculptures of me that live in there still.
on that note, the last messages we shared filled me with a temporary shame (that surely evaporated). shame that i shouldn’t have so openly ansembled the contents of my heart to you. but there’s always the risk to such endeavors, which is more than worth it still.

i apologize for the times i have contracted your heart. my only hope is you allow the ice it formed, to melt.
the truth is i truly am learning how to live and how to be with people while living in an extremely sensible life form. thank you for the patience you shared with me, it made me feel less out of place.

words are truly abstractions and i want to use less of them. i used too much of them the time before the last time we met. and some meanings i regret making. but maybe languange is an ever morphing entity, that expands with every physical manifestation. so maybe there’s no need for regret.

i know you don’t call me selfish out of heart but of anger. and anger is powerful, it’s a catalyst. please don’t be afraid of anger, it urges a neccessary internal voyage. as i would hope it did.

maybe this is not all, but it’s all for now.