It’s been so long since you’ve written. The weeks go by and no new word of you has surfaced. You’ve begun to be buried beneath the passage of life and other dust. This isn’t to say, if I disturbed all the layers, that I’d find you under there; No, I don’t believe this is that type of burial. I know there is far too much drawing you to adventure, too much to expound upon in the native tongue of flesh and touch.
I just wish every once and an exhale, that you find time to use your words. Because for those who miss out on the first hand taste of your actions deserve to know at least second hand what you felt; Like the sunsets taken in before they lived! Paint them like only you can picture.
What are you lost for? You know why we don’t talk straight; We have to keep the meaning hidden. Who wants to read something without any curious mysteries? We can only assume that the other has understood the symbols we have placed along the way. So if you’re following or not, You will read. You will ascribe to me whatever you feel, and that will be that.
At some turn you realized, that this my darling was never about completing anything. We don’t finish, we never end. It fragments, it gets drawn apart, but it’s never ending. Isn’t that most clear when we need another sip only breaths after the last?
You could sit there and let everything pass you by, and surely what you’d come up with is something that no where else exists. I wouldn’t be surprised; But I want you to get out there.