Say goodbye to the one who arms you

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“Harms: physical injury that which is deliberately inflicted.” Not that “Harm”, though. If you listen closely it’s “Arms”. As “a thing resembling an arm in form or function, in particular”. The meanings are endless. But this is just a letter with words of longing. It goes on loop all the way.


Dear Ring,

You are leaving, I know, you were barely here. Didn’t even call. You sent me that message telling that we could meet and have a drink somewhere. I answered, and then nothing. I waited for two weeks and this is already the third. Now I know you are gone, they’ve told me. I feel it.

It’s true. And I did receive a dim contact again but it was all blank, as if you were some kind of a blank person, with nothing to say. The same blank you used to be. That I still remember. That’s probably what suits you best. I guess, you must have been wandering here and there, as usual. Calling this and that girl. I know. Fixing meetings all across the country. In your first class trains. Full of comfort. In coffee-shop toilets. Inside rental cars. In poorly lit streets. Or in bars where everyone was rolling joints just because the name of the place was Moroccan. And that was a name that didn’t belong in any movie. Or in any book. Yeah, you were subscribing your services. Knocking from door to door. Looking for your lost soul. Have you finally found it? I know your search is for nothing and you just let yourself go with the wind.

Feels good. Better that way. For the time being. It does me good to know how you are. It does me good to hear about you. Believing that you’re someone special and probably I’ll never meet someone like that again.

But you’re gone.

People tell me stories. Tales of your presence and of your passage. Of your way of speaking. Slowly. Gloomy. Always thinking about something else than the words you’re saying. Misleading your speech. Always with your mind further away. Ahead on the clouds. Looking to everyone and tuning all their details, right at their first chords. The expressions and the faults. On the remains of a face or some talking lips.

A mouth that answers, yes. And you wanting to help them. With a kiss. But I know you can listen like no one else. You just listen to everything, like now, don’t you? You’re listening to me. That’s why I talk, that’s why I write. Because I know you read me. With no complications. And that’s what you like. You like to listen. To live within the reach of others sight. Further less. You just want to be known as the one that is around. Ready for everything. A sun. A moon. With all its different facial expressions. Either the good, the bad or the ugly sides.

And I can tell easily that you might enlighten me, yes, from afar. From near. Good to know that you’re there, that you’re more than my imagination. More than the ideas in my head as I awake. On my first chords. When I feel your presence, coming to me full of comfort, brings me a great peace of mind. Or your image, walking. Passing by. Asking if I’m alright. If I want to go for a drink. In that rental life of yours. With that name that isn’t in any movie. That house you have at the bottom of the desert, with no address. With no signs. Do you hear me? I know you do.

People say: “When one leaves there is always a return.” Is it true? We are always returning to the point of departure? Like Spring. The return as a sequence of a departure, the “eternal return”? The motherland? Tell me when you’ll be back. Now that you’ve returned to your realm of puppets. To your circus, where everything is make believe and almost fake. Gone back. To your grains of sand, that come together beyond your control. That come apart in the words of someone that remains on top of your own face. In expressions and faults.

Are you coming before or after everything takes place? Or did your everythingtook place already? No. The “everything” is always taking place, it’s eternal. I know. Like returning. Yours and mine. Return is forever. Returning is always showing at theaters near you. The end is the beginning.

Is the end.

Do you recall the last thing you did before getting there? The last face you’ve seen; can you still look at it? That sad man inside you, is he still there? The one who waited for a few seconds. Did he have a name; did he smile? Did he shiver, with the tingle of your fingers? Did he wait that whole long just to be gone, to let you go? Can you see him, feel his lips? Do you forgive him?

I feel the melody on the other side of the window, that sweet voice coming from the other side of the world. That you do not know who’s from but at the same time breathes together with you? It displayed you. Like a wall. It died for you. It drowned. It got lost. Came back under another shape, built hard, I’m sure. With a luggage more complete, more full. But, at the same time, much lighter. There is nothing to fear, trust me. Told me a friend of yours, the imaginary friend you talk with on the phone.

And it’s nothing!

You know what you want, you know quite well what are your things. You sense good enough all the faces of the moon. Don’t mind the bad. Don’t mind the ugly. You looked at them countlessly. They already lived with you enough of what is there to be lived. You remember, I know, you have it on your records.

They’re gone.

And there is so much to say. Always so much that it ends up not to being told at all. Not written. Not done. Will you do it now? Open all your windows and cry your treasures out? Don’t forget to mention that missing grain. It doesn’t matter. I want you to dance like in the old times. Ours. Do you still remember? That dead enhancement, or the steps towards the abyss that we realized only too late?

The Sea. Do you recall the sea? The wind that came and stayed quietly there, smelling what we had to offer. And the city. Our city. With rivers. That flowed from the mouth to the source. Back to the mountain. Fearing death. Do you remember their names, how they flew in a hurry? The water upside down saying farewell, throwing kisses. Playing. Almost pretending. It wasn’t that long ago. And the rivers remain on the same beds. Slower. Gloomed out. Untidier. Always drunk, the water, waiting for you to return.

The rivers know about you, because I tell them your stories. Because whenever you write I throw them your letters. Sometimes making little boats. Waiting for the long course of the water to rebel and eats, all at once, the city that cries for you. Over here.

Is there anyone else that cried for you? That knew your name, that could speak on the phone without being just imaginary? That teased you? In the lift. Inside a pillow. On the garden’s lawn? Or on the back seat of a taxi? That told you everything with no rain. No shivers. And waited for you to say that the whole ground was more than you were feeling? Waited for you to forget the lapses?

You could no longer look at any more expressions. On any face. In possession. You have to let it go. In deep silence. Off your soul, still certainly unfound. Your cast. Leaving the man within you that confesses to the depths of him. Leave him! The one that blows to pieces the grains of sand still to arise. That one who arranges meetings all across the country, trying to get high. Forming and constructing a new body. Unique. That can’t be found elsewhere. An original protected from any copy machine. Clean. Full of sun. And moons of infinite faces that are found swimming on the desire of their expressions. Faultless. In too small a land. Where only the good are seen.

That’s what it is!

You can always return. Anytime. Leaving a new world open, it only takes getting in and carrying on. Both feet at once. In that mirror of yours. Time runs ahead of you, do not look at it. Let it go. Far, far away. Let it suffer softly. Buy it a first class ticket and let it travel in comfort. Lit up the streets. Maybe it will come across someone on the way and becomes a reliable and pleasant weep. In a mouth that speaks. And kisses. Not shaking the feelings. The speech. That spells all your senses at once. In a loop. That spells all your senses at once. In a loop. That spells all your senses at once. In a loop. That spells all your senses at once. In a loop…

Did you know? I like you so much. To the infinite and back. I know you fell the same for me. Do you still? Bon voyage, my Love. Always.

Sincerely,

L. Me

[LETTER FOUND LOCALLY, IN 2005, ON AN EMPTY TRAIN STATION]