My dear Sophie,
Don’t be fooled by the pictures of morning glories and pink sunsets that I send you. There are many days I am inside my room writing by my rainy window words and words of silence. I have not changed my robes. My hair is unwashed. There are half-empty cups of tea. There are many dead flowers. I see the hummingbird come and go but I can’t hear her. The snail crawls on the pale glass hoping for my attention. Nothing else really moves.
Many days I have not stepped outside my room or seen anyone. Some days when there is no choice left but to step outside, I do so under the moon’s light. I tiptoe to the little garden and lie down in my swing. I can hear them whispering and I can see them peeping out of their flower windows to find my silhouette. I am afraid that soon I might be called the Myth of Eze. Oh, wouldn’t that be nice, my Sophie? You must think I continue to chase.
But then I also get tired of being hidden under the books of others, my poems and dead philosophies. I find myself in the visions of insanity, in eyes forgetting to blink, in unmoved lips wondering if they would ever speak again. There is exhaustion I cannot describe. Has it come about because of my many sleepless nights or because of swims of my souls never leading to surfaced realities? There is loneliness here you wouldn’t believe of. Do you remember the banished pianist from our school? My body seems unalive and unloved. It is here when I know that I must step outside in the sun.
So I step outside in the sun. Its scorching heat is evident by the melting clay. But I take my barefooted heavy steps on the ground. I walk towards the drying lake. I can hear the summer crickets become louder. The grass is lush green shining even more so in the bright light of the sun. I lay on the grass like I am ready for my death. I let the sun burn my skin. I let it make me transparent. I write you this letter. I disperse into many small pieces of rainbow.
Votre ami dévoué