Lacking definition

Dear dear,

I read once from a great philosopher that at some point, all things become predictable. I believed he predictably said that, being great and all. I predictably continued on with the book afterwards, being grated and all he was not. And now, I predictably do the same here, writing to you about what too was once great, being in the middle of all it can be and cannot.

Tonight, you sleep alone. We have fought, for something that will be ring like music of buckets crashing downstairs in a month’s time. It’s confusing, the way fused bodies tend to be when trying to pick out a limb, the way that the howls of orangutans might be, if we couldn’t reproduce them in our agony and elation alike.

Here, my mouth is silent, but the fingers are heavy and I can summon languages I never learned and never will learn in the lightness of the night. There are words I only remember on the torrent of evenings, where the harsh silt of Weltschmerz fangs itself in my bite. It is an untranslatable word in German for grief in youth that is often felt during love. Yugen brambles to itself to the surface as well. In Japanese, it means to represent the sad beauty of human suffering.

But what am I doing giving a name to the nameless? Komorebi – sunlight that filters through foliage of darkened trees; uffda – sympathetic pain; formacja –  a state of generational mind. I am giving the single-use words a meaning from when I’ve heard them borrowed, when they’ve been shared with me, when they’ve been emphasized that they do not mean what they do mean, but they still, somehow, do. They stand alone. Like all things will, eventually.

Today, there was sun that finishes, but will come back; there were kisses that lifted, but that bear repeating; there was food that was eaten and drinks drunk and entire feelings confessed that will be swallowed and gulped and confessionally felt again. There was me telling you in poor literalism that I had never felt this way, that I couldn’t describe it exactly. There was the fact that like those single, slumbery words that require their own use to exist, to make sense of, to become inhabited by this surprisingly small, tinny world that too is alone, this day will never come again. Things will happen that will never happen again. They will be done.

You did not answer. I walked outside. When I left you to haphazardly scatter ideas onto disorganized essays and unpublishable articles, I passed crows which were doing what crows did for years before, years after. They congregated on the roof of some home, rustling a separating black, puncturing the neutral sky. They flew off, until they gobbled the clouds, the buildings, until they murdered the surrounding scenery. There were so many. They were a world. I felt that among the squawking and shit, I could feel forever.

Such is the balderdash reserved for the end of times, for when capitulation gives way to bewilderment. But so am I. I’ve confessed other things that did not beg for silence. A few days ago, I came in to announce that yes, it is true what was heard among the wind and the stars that cut through the pollution and clouds: we were back in our honeymoon phase. The grass was sprouting outside. It would be ready for your feet, feet I have yet to describe. Listen listen. Watch them make ground more. Hear their heels hold it into a whole.

You looked outside. You told me that you were feeling guilty for all that happened. All that didn’t.

I sat beside you, held your entire head. I tossed you from one arm to another. I mimed the words. Were you thinking that I was all of all? Did you think I could be more too?

Little is about me, of course, in the same way a string is not a sweater or a grain of rice is not a field. But my parents often tell me a story where in Poland, when the food shortage was at its worse, a friend of theirs killed another for a kilo of rice. The next year, they worked on a farm helping to grow it. Different lives.

Retelling is random – by definition, it should not be to be honest – but so is each word that led me here again in silence, so are the sounds the man made when he was butchered for rice, so is the big, bustling thing we find ourselves in that is untranslatable, that is found when I look at you, that I sometimes seen when you look at me, that is sometimes promised in the infinity of the crows when the sunlight laps itself opportunely on your back, when I am met with the ludicrous and improbable realization that we are somehow made of the same flesh and finer parts, when a day only has your hair and skin and eyes that brandish a brown gold, when there is sometimes just that what is simply: us. Predictably, honestly, repetitively us us us.

I am here for anything, dear, if you want to include me. If you want to leave me aside, to watch me in isolation of use, I am here too. This is important. For though I am no great philosopher, I know what he failed to mention was that while at some point all things become predictable, the most predictable aspect is the point itself. It inhabits a space. It can kill a man, a baby. It kisses and promises and coos. It says that it will be here, hoping, helping, happy.

What isn’t is unpredictability, though. When things are no longer great. When they are philosophical and real. A bag of rice is a man. Weltschmerz is an entire universe. And I am wondering after tonight, today, what tomorrow will bring?

When I finish this letter, I am optimistic that it will be you with the strong, insistent, impossible undertow. You. With the glorious, grainy morning. You. With the chance to take you into what may be another chance to be taken too. Into my arms. Into what even they cannot hold or translate.

Yours yours yours,
Kacper