Dear Anupriy: Letter#11
(This letter is part of an epistolary series Speaking Our Souls and is a response to Letter #10. If you wish to start from the beginning, you can look at the list here)
I want to write you a fictional story in this letter.
A bug wanted to fly into a crystal ball.
The crystal ball was, in fact, a vision.
The vision crumbled as the bug came close.
Sad, the bug returned to its flower.
You’re right. That’s shit. Because I am feeling happy today.
And stupid. And drowsy in comfort. So I can only think of bugs.
What is the fictional story going to be about?
Ok, how about a man who can’t sleep
so he keeps washing stairs that lead to a metro station.
He is calm, quiet and moves slowly, like death.
The air around him is thicker and heavier than most other people.
Maybe he has an interesting life. Maybe he’s bursting out of seams.
It is the most charming co-incidence,
his life in the city. But does he know?
He’s rife. He’s restive.
He’s quiet and only
in the brim of his skull, alive.
The high of a low hum. He goes on washing.
I had a lovely time last week.
but I don’t have a revelation yet. I don’t have a thought,
nor an idea, not even an id-
I am writing to you because
we made a promise. But I am a kaam-chor,
A bandit on the run — one, single ivory ear-ring on the left,
a plaid jacket with holes for wings and a wooden foot.
She doesn’t know just how far she can run, or if she can stay afloat.
The wooden leg should help.
Time goes by her as she goes by time.
They see each other, they nod and they are in awe.
They are fluid and they float…sometimes they touch each other.
Time sees her through.
So, coming back. The fictional story can be about
you. us?
Maybe just another person in another generation in another time,
who might feel strongly about ideas of freedom, social rights and innovation.
Who could be like us and who we could be like.
When you realize that all of us are mirrors and key-holes
to people outside and inside of the fabric of time,
then you think about legacies and outlooks.
I believe that art and other social activities do more
to bring you in sync with other citizens, citizens of another time
than just those existing in your milieu.
I want to be associated with art.
Alright. That is neither here nor there.
I have ruined my letter to you. The fictional story doesn’t exist.
I guess it’s just pretentious. But who the fuck is going to stop me.
They haven’t even read the rest (of ten).
And I am totally fine with it.
Send some coherence from your side.
I might use it to fix the compressor. There could have been a leakage.
On the other hand, a headless low-rent pigeon will do just as well.
Stay away from the police.
Yours mid-sentence,
Roh
