Of Months Past, a Letter to a Friend
“Of Proust again, “My hand trembles so as I write to you.” This, certainly, was not the message I had hoped to deliver in the past. It is not, unfortunately, that great all-important piece of correspondence that may alter the universal flow, but it is something, I feel. It is a sort of promissory note, a vindicated assertion to continue to grow and recognize and blossom. To honor lofty thoughts, but cherish indescribable emotions above all. There is a connection, an honesty, between you and I that I cherish and, to an extent, romanticize. You are, after all, that long lost compatriot across a sea, living a life so different from my own. I smile because of that. I smile because of most things these days. And for some reason, writing to you, trembling in a manner—perhaps not physically, but mentally—I feel like some strange expatriated beast. Alone in a smoky Tangiers café, smoking hashish, and pondering the cosmos as if doing so is some greater form of existence. And then, I realize, quite simply, that I am not that person. I am merely a man attempting to sort out life as best as any person can. I am attempting to find the reflection of soul in some grandiose mirror. Perhaps, one day I shall. But, until then, I hold those days of past as a hierophant held oracles, attempting this neurotic exorcism; attempting to remove the mask of past and dive head first into some baptismal water so that I may be the receptive ear and soul for others.
“…as the winds turn leaves, so she turned heads, heads which all at once became light.” And so, I turn my head to you, and offer these, my words. ”
