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Letter to the Fireplace

12 Jun

“I have songs in my head, and sometimes not just one but up to two or three. I have words in my head, popping up from nowhere and lingering, so many that if I could catch them all they might make an amazing story; but, like people and autumn leaves in the wind they often just pass by leaving little trace if any that they were once there. I would tell you I know too many words, I speak two and an almost-half languages with a few words of others floating around. For example, I know three ways of saying hello in Japanese. And because I know too many words, I often forget the simplest ones and muddle up the others and I get unusual blanks. I have too many worlds and stories in my head that I usually forget this one. I have people in my head, not often ones that really exist but often that come from stories I like. They talk to me, we have adventures, or we don’t. There is a small place in my head for the people I love where I remember those ones, who they were, who they are, who they could be and what they mean or meant to me. I tend to forget fights or grudges, either completely or just enough to still remember them when I need them. Things I don’t want to remember are hidden in the Tartarus of my brain. I don’t want people to know who I am, because it makes me vulnerable and I know some wouldn’t understand. I tend to stay away from people because most will judge me and I’ve always been shy. I often have difficulty staring reality in the face, I’m usually never completely there except for a few rare times when I’m confident enough about it. I can only sit still when I’m not really there, when I’m dreaming of something and my mind is far away, if I’m not I’m always twitching and fidgeting and looking around as if I were watching an invisible fly.
I don’t know if I want to change, but I don’t know if it’s possible to live like this forever. I don’t even know if I can change. And it wouldn’t be easy.
But no one can see this deep in the depths of my heart, so none will ever know.
Or could they?”

Tiger felt silly now, writing a letter to no one at all. What did she think she could achieve? But she knew that writing had helped clear her mind. So, before going to bed, she scrunched it up softly and watched it burn in the warm fire. With a clearer head and a well kept but not heavy secret she left again to catch people and autumn leaves in her dreams with floating songs and loved ones.

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Posted by on 12 June 2014 in Banzaï

 

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