Unexpected

Something quite strange just happened. I think there might be something wrong going on. How could it be that everything I read, I had already read before? Is that even possible? It must be, since every time I turn a page, the new page seems like the same old page again. And the story is still the same; the same words, the same expressions, the same ideas, the same flow, the same voice, and the same intonation; all this with the same message.

At first, it seemed like I was unwrapping an old gift that I had received decades before, and of which, the value increased dearly as time passed by. Then it felt like I unfolded the letter from a precious friend that almost vanished away in time. Suddenly, I caught myself noticing that I was picking up details from the story in my head before the narrative even spoke about it. I was thinking it before it even showed up. And that’s how the beauty of it started fading as I got accustomed to the old time memories to the point that I stopped being marveled by the new meeting of them. Since I know all of this already, I thought, then why would I spend my time reading all the same things all over again? It was enough. Enough of this nonsense so I decided I would quit reading. Fed up, I started to write this text.

From the stories I just read, many were written from a dear friend of mine. I also read stories from his dear friend whom I don’t know much about. It brought back memories of how much he admired her. And since I don’t talk to either ones, I wonder now if she ever decided to love him back?

The next day I reached out to his little sister and in my letter to her, I carefully attached a photograph of an extract from those texts I had just read. I hoped to find a hint to all this mystery. Perhaps everyone writes under ghost names our days, for her investigation confirmed there was no one known to be revealed.

There must be a reason for all that reading. What does it want from me? Why was I hearing my friend so loudly? I refuse to believe that it is left to the great void. So then it must want to serve a purpose. Do you wonder just like I do about all the reading that leads to something new? Honestly, maybe I should just accept as humble truth the fact that all I see is what wants to be seen. Then, everything would be more normal. But what if you have already read this? Have you? Do you read things just the way I do?

Perhaps, what I write is dumb and maybe I should just paint it instead. But what would I paint about? And what if all that I painted snugged into that same vision, that same dream? Would we all fall asleep or all be awakened from that dream? It’s getting late now I should probably go to bed. Tomorrow morning I have ballet class, and then I will have lunch at my sister’s abode. How comforting it is to ponder my attention on certainties for I shall participate in two factual events; at last, it’s a good attempt to stay in a reality that makes due sense.

I feel a little far, a little remote, as if I cannot directly reach you. No matter how you decide to portray yourself, I hope I reach you in movements, emotions and thoughts so you can see, touch and feel me with all your senses. I hope we can be one at once and feel each other and share a moment of intimacy together. Have we ever? Have my words ever shared wisdom that you could relate to? Have my dances ever brought tears of joy in your eyes? Have my paintings ever been featured on any of your walls? Why dare to build walls then? Perhaps none of this is my business and I shall then silently walk another way. It’s just that when all gets so common, then I feel like stripping down my own privacy. It seems pointless at this point in time.

And if you can see through me, why spend my energy establishing a defense mechanism? Well, if I doubted you did not have any binoculars, perhaps it would be worth my time. It is too late for that though, since you showed me your latest model and when I tried them the world was so pretty that I promised myself I would never close my eyes ever again.