Reader, is it not odd that our communication consists largely of expression on my part and absorbance on yours? How impersonal, how peculiar is this medium, this flow of ideas that persists in but one direction; how easy for me to claim the title of brave and vulnerable when I pen my thoughts for anyone to read, but never am made to confront she who reads them?
I write to You, Reader, the intangible face behind a glowing screen, knowing that you, a reader, are an individual to whom I can not write directly, by virtue of the nature of our correspondence, but for whom I feel affection. This relationship of ours is odd to me. Everything is odd to me of late.
For though I think it likely you are one of my personal acquaintances (I would be most flattered, but even more shocked, to discover you have taken an interest in the scattered brain of a woman you have never met), I would wager that even if you are not, you have by this time employed your stunning intellect to surmise that I am rather fond of speaking – I am disinclined to sit in the sanctity of silence when I have so many thoughts flitting about my head.
This revelation of yours, one which I will confirm to be true, no doubt makes my absence these last months all the more curious.
There have been instances in years past in which I have taken refuge from divulging the contents of my mind on account of various stressors constricting my creative capacity. In these instances I espoused one of my infamously effusive yet inadequate apologies, and we continued down the pixelated path as if nothing had ever been amiss. Is this same excuse to be given for my absence these last months? Were I to say it, it would be true – that indeed my life has been somewhat anarchic of late, and surely it is not so very selfish of me to have stepped away from the clacking of my fingers against a keyboard in favour of preserving some element of normalcy while I prepare to leap into the unknown.
I might cite such unease as the culprit for my neglect, indeed. But instead, Reader, I will claim to be the victim of a phenomenon utterly new to me – that of being without words to say.
Reader, I will tell you that today, as I write these words on my bed, I am both exhausted by and proud of myself. In the last four years, I have worked to cultivate a sense of awareness, responsibility, and kindness in the way I relate to both myself and others. You may remember the trials and frustrations I faced during my freshman year, and how very difficult it all was to overcome. And yet, through the steadfastness and brilliant love of those in my life, I am blessed with the sense of peace and strength which I have come to call my constant. My gratitude for the learning I have acquired and will continue to encounter is all-consuming.
And yet, I lament that I am indeed still learning. I grow annoyed when that which I had mastered yesterday escapes me today, and like Sisyphus I must start anew on a path I know well. I am positive of my potential and yet horrified by the gap between the woman who possesses it, and I. I am James Gatz, and she is Gatsby, and I build her up in my head until she is more fantastic than Daisy and far too unattainable for the likes of me.
It is this tension with which I have been grappling that robs me of my words. I am so desirous of the greatness I lack, repulsed by conventionality, terrified of myself and the forces I can not control.
I am, after all, just one dreamer. It can be most harrowing, Reader, to call forth one’s battalions against the sneaking enemy that is reality, to wonder whether to fight, flee, or fall. It is most ridiculous to defend one’s own imagination against the real world, to grow up and at the same time preserve the light of imagination, flames fanned by a burning self-confidence. I would have a much easier time if I were not me.
But I don’t want an easier time. I am in love with the work that I do and the learning it has brought me. It is fear alone – fear that I will not ascend to the greatness I demand of myself – that whispers in my ear until I can only think, and not speak.
This is the circumstance of my current existence, Reader. I look forward and see nothing but a haze to the west, but when I fall asleep at night I manifest a destiny so magnificent the stars linger before me when I open my eyes.
I may have no words, Reader, and I may have no idea what is to come, but I am grateful to have you, and I hope you rest assured that you always have me as well.
Love,
Lettie Anne