oh hey there, spring, you're back.
it's no secret you've been hovering around for awhile, teasing us with your feverish wiles. how you usher in something soft, something that we've missed, a newness and the next. and because i accidentally let my mind wander around your orbit, i began thinking about everything again. there is always so much to consider, can i get a witness? our lives are full of simultaneity, hugeness, and an overwhelming amount of minutia.
and here in the western hemisphere the sun has gently reminded us of the moment in which all that littleness happens. yes, the cherry blossoms have been dressing the streets for weeks, their break neck beauty seducing traffic. yes, there is jasmine growing along the edges of fences and the like. but isn't it how the sky cleared and restored the light back into the day, reminding us that there is less dark, is that what breaks us down and builds us back together the most?
i have written two unsent letters to two very different people in the past week.
the first one was written out of frustration and a need to feel heard, if not understood. my fingers went wild on the keys and then when it came time to send, i froze. i slept on it and woke up the next day with less of a need to outwardly extend those feelings. i decided to just feel them for myself, and let them dissolve on their own.
the second letter was more complicated, vulnerable, harder to articulate. the message was sincere, absolutely honest, maybe even a little too transparent; sometimes i don't know, maybe i'm doing a little too much thinking...
in any case, i spent a lot of time crafting the message, making sure that there was a purpose to each word, that the t's were crossed and the i's were dotted. in the end it when it was lost it was one part my subconscious cold feet and another fate. when saving it as a draft, i accidentally erased it instead. along with my time, hopes, and efforts, those carefully worded sentiments, vanished.
when it was without a doubt that the letter had gone into the great nowhere, i was relieved. i knew i couldn't rewrite it and ever feel the same sort of satisfaction or certainty that i had originally, not because my feelings had changed, but because that unfettered access to them had been compromised.
those lines had ascended into the ether. an outer hemisphere where things like, what you wished you had said in the moment, and lost socks go, and are never recovered.
and so my sense of letting go was restored, like i drug that i can't possibly get enough of.
i don't wonder how i will ever say those things again, i only wonder what their worth really ever was in the first place.
i am a writer because i have spring fever.