Letter

I’m writing this letter from the bottom of a great mountain. On my journey, running from the world, I always had the hope that one day I will reach a mountain like this. But now that I found it, it ain’t anything in it to heal my wounds.

Last time I wrote to you, I was kind of happy with my life at the kaleidoscope, checking on the damn springs and ropes, believing I’m making people happy, thinking that my work is essential to help the world. But one morning I woke up from a weird dream, and, somehow, I saw the world with fresh eyes. It was like some unused neurons in my brain, got unlocked and freed to act on their own. It messed up my existence. The cheerful people I used to see before, all looked now sad, in deep misery. I saw prima donnas walking their dogs with an elegance that wasn’t one of their attributes; I saw them talking to the poor animals as they would have understood them, saw them picking up their poop with their hands, their fingers awkwardly prolonged with fake multi colored nails, and carrying that pop in their fancy bags. I saw men, some sort of machos, exposing their inflated muscles, pulling over their golden carriages to show off to the people. I checked their combed hairs, darkened with dyes but underneath their scalps I saw looks of desperations, of a people that lost their directions, their connection with reality, I saw misery in their behavior. It was surprising to see all this, suddenly, and I tried to shake it away as a bad dream. I hoped, the day after some other dreams, I might not see that anymore, but I was wrong. It was there every day.

Then I ran home from the kaleidoscope, packed everything in a rush and threw them in my carriage, put the harnesses on my beloved horses, and trotted away with no regrets. I didn’t even dare look back again. I pushed my poor horses to a rushed gallop, day by day going in a direction that was unclear. The ocean, I did not want to see anymore, even though I felt like I will miss it. In my desperation, I disregarded every bump in the road. I didn’t check any of the fords before crossing them. I didn’t care if any of the bridges will hold us on. The horses grew tired, and the carriage weakened from all its joints, shaken by the bumps, and dips, and rocks on the road, and I had to stop. The carriage, I left right there where I pulled over along with many of my luggage, the horses I let free to go find their own destiny. From there on, I ran. Every morning I would wake up, have a frugal meal and start running. I don’t know where I had all the energy from. All I knew was that I have to run, to disappear, just that I did not know from what. At dusk, I will fall under a tree, rest my back on the trunk, eat frugally while I was still catching my breath and fall asleep as soon as the heart would get to a decent pace.

When I reached this mountain, I was gasping for air, panting and feeling nauseous. Clear it was, I couldn’t run up the steep slopes, and I couldn’t indulge in the mountain’s beauty, neither could I enjoy resting on the bank of a river, whose clear waters were coming down from the mountain and flew slowly to a faraway conjunction with a bigger river, unite with it and travel away to meet their ocean.

I dreamed a few nights there, and spent the days in a state of confusions, not caring about food or water.

As I was sitting there on a log, looking at the river, I tried to remember what I was running from, but I couldn’t. I didn’t know who I was and where I was going, and I had to cry loudly and shedding lots of tears. And I slept again last night, and I think I had no dreams, but woke up and recalled I didn’t write you a letter in a while. I emptied my sack and found the notebook at the bottom, sharpen the pen with my knife and started this letter. Now I am thinking how I will send it, as I know that where you are there’s no mail to carry it, and I decided to put it in a bottle, seal it carefully and let it float freely on the river. I am sure one day it will reach the destination somehow. There will probably some curious people down the stream that will try to look at it but I know it is of no importance for them and they will put it back to flow, and it will reach the ocean and from there, carried by mysterious currents it will get into the waters of Styx to cross the border between the worlds. I need to live with this belief.

Writing this, I realized I was running from nothing else but myself, my sorrows, my regrets, losing my breath for nothing because I carried them all with me in my heart. I knew my rebellion wasn’t against the humans, but against the unmerciful odds of life. The unfair distribution of pain and sufferance among us. I shouted to the mountain to speak my frustration, and the mountain echoed my words, reverberating them back to me weirdly. Not truly a believer, I hoped on top of this beautiful mountain live some gods, some creatures that somehow have control over our lives and our destinies and I wanted them to see and hear my spirit of revolt. I told them they were damn wrong to have sent such a punishment to a saint; I told them I don’t believe in all the stories that saints have to suffer in order to pay for others’ sins. I told them they didn’t know you enough. I told them they were out of their minds. Hardly I calmed down, hoping they heard my voice. The mountain stood there, silent. Then I questioned myself why I was so distracted, how could I have thought you can’t be knocked down easy, and I blamed myself for believing in some miracle, a kind of one of many you made for us during your exemplary time on this world. My memory starts coming back all at once and I can’t hold in my tears. It’s been three months now since we lost you, but time doesn’t matter anymore. What’s three months, three years or three eternities if you’re not here?

I am sorry for my handwriting, I can barely hold the pen, I’m sorry for how the paper looks, it was squeezed down between unnecessary things I was carrying in my sack, sorry for the stains, that is the tears I can’t hold anymore. It’s not what I wrote, it’s not what I am telling you about. Don’t mind me acting foolishly and running away. None of that matters. With these wrinkled papers jammed in the little bottle, I am sending to you all my love, and keep with me the sorrows, the regrets but also all the sweet memories.

From the Mountain of Hope,

August, 18th 2023

P.S. Love needs no translation