how strong you were.
against the deadening of days, you continued. against the sadness inside, you swelled.
i am somehow and somewhere against those two emotions now – in the same sorry situation you were in when you weren’t necessarily in your self. in fact, it is why i am emailing you despite the promise that i would never do so again: i want to give meaning to this like you did when you did.
what that means, i think, is to give testament to the weakness, to this medical machine i couldn’t quite understand. i’ll admit, i was bonkers. i thought it trite. i thought your worries of dread and horror unfounded. but in it, seeing it, i want to write what you already knew and i am only coming to find out in its muting transparency – the blue of the thing.
that is from maggie nelson, who i have poured over wildly and gruffly, in the aftermath of aftermaths. with her and you in turn, i have seen the blue. been the blue. blew the blue. become bluer than blue too.
it comes as an essence, a whisper in cradled, cool waves: i see you sitting here in montreal, reading, laughing, roaring from the inside of your cheetah coat. i see you around and above, warmed in a yellow hat, telling me to look here, kacper, this is the blue.
i am sorry i didn’t look then, and rather looked away from your brightness, but i am trying to find that glistening born beauty you solely sowed now in bars and music and medicine and work and books and me and not me – friends, food, and fury. sometimes my own. other times, my cat’s.
i hope i can explain her – a lazy white mixed with a playful grey – to you later. i hope i can do more too in these dates described. i want to tell you of these days that just are, those that sit easy and fat with glee, those that find themselves in your once forayed forever, that require a voice that i have lost, that are as large as the blue berries that bleed summer and that pour in my pocket like poems. you never have to respond. you can tell me to stop. you can be that blue thing again, looking like little crests on the waters saying to the ocean to end it, end it, this is enough.
that is okay. i’ll understand. you have become what you always were, a rainbowed force of you untouchable and radiant, beyond the hue of any one colour, and there is no room for a single noise.
yet i was quiet for so long that this language becomes customary. instead, i want to be strong like you. i want to be open like you. i want, like in that last letter i said i’d write before this one, to be hopeful to give you the blue of all there is, including me.
what does that look like? for now, a wish for a better way to sign off this letter.
yours until tomorrow,
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