Beloved Reader,
while you are reading this letter, I will be writing other letters to you. The biggest reason why this possibly belated letter may be so late is that I had a faith that you would one day find me on your own. However, I have just found out that in order to be found one has to first search, and I am writing these lines. Even though unraveling myself may not mean that you will easily find me, at least there is now a chance for this relationship.
They said that everything could be read on the face. I wonder if we all have been sentenced to one face for centuries? I wish I had looked at my face more carefully. I didn’t stand in front of a mirror and look at myself, but instead I waited for you to show up and reflect it back to me. Excuse me.
Now I am living in the attic of an old house. I am writing these lines to you on an inclined table of an architect right in front of an inclined window in a roof. While writing, I am not looking at my fingers, but at the screen. While not looking at the screen I am watching out through the window that starts where the screen ends. I see the sky during the day. It is sometimes all white, sometimes all blue, sometimes blue and white all together, sometimes grey, and sometimes the color of mud. And in the evenings, I don’t see anything but my reflection in the glass. I mostly write when it rains at night. Somewhere a radio is on, and the words I hear from the songs stir my soul. Sometimes something weird happens: my consciousness gets stuck. I want all I imagine, all I cannot imagine, all I will be able to imagine and all I won’t be able to imagine to mix with your imaginings in these letters and spaces that I hold in my hands, absurdly, for us.
I’ve already officially shared this love within my thesis. The committee members said that they couldn’t find the things I had written in the subject of my research, but they underlined that I had constructed my own text well, and that the thesis should be published and find its own readers. Therefore, I wanted to publish it as well. To that end, I contacted some editors, but there was no real response. I wonder if there is another way for you to read me, at least unofficially. For some reason, you are only interested in yourself now. Not even in yourself, but in your image. You always look at your photos, always like things, comment on them, share them, always add or remove people from your life. I guess, then, you don’t think about my existence or non-existence, and maybe even the possibility of my existence is something that doesn’t really exist for you. Perhaps, then, just as this letter will not reach you, this love for you will stay here too.
If you somehow encounter this letter, know that you are always in my thoughts. In every line and word that I write, even in the spaces within writing, the truth is that you are not written on my face but living in my consciousness. What has been typed by my fingertips is a possible life for the two of us.
Another hundred years of solitude without you would be too difficult. If you understand me here and now, I say to myself, what couldn’t we accomplish in a hundred years? Just imagine. Aren’t we people of the same wor-l-d after all? Here is a secret, and I would appreciate it if it stays only between us: to understand means to enjoy in this love. Even if they are not synonyms, they are homonyms. Just like the sounds we make when we enjoy and we understand.
Hope we reunite someday somewhere.
Beloved Author