February 25, 2012

Dear B.

It is hard for me to understand your language when all you are doing is mimicking some big theories of post-modernism and gender politics. it is hard to be in your world when all i want to do is to live a normal life with dirty baby laundry in my backyard and greasy plates in my sink.   all things put aside, i am still searching for that specific moment that will make me feel alive. i wish we've never met. i wish you never came into my life. i wish you've never crossed pushkin street on that cold afternoon. i wish we've never had that cup of tea in the small underground club. i wish you've never came under my blue dress with grey stripes. i wish you've never entered that forbidden place where everything is now chaos after you left. i wish i wouldn't write these things to you, these words are meant to harm you, to push you away yet with an inviting note. i wish you stayed in my fantasies. i wish you didn't speak french, i wish you followed some other destiny. i wish you wrote another book with a happy ending love story. i wish i knew how to make things better. i wish i was able to erase some things, copy others, paste few. i wish you understood that sometimes words are enough to make me do things i regret. 
i wish i was able to destroy the memories haunting my stomach, making me crave for more to  vomit all at the end. i wish i was able to be that person in your picture, under the sun, looking happy and content, without worries. i wish we met again as strangers in one of the cafes near the opera, ordered beer and sat down close to each other almost touching but not saying a word, just looking, feeling the absent words, imagining the end, forwarding then pausing for that instant, then leaving the table in silence at the right time. Mother died 6 months ago. i didnt feel the sadness that i was pre-programmed to feel. she knew the story of the little happy girl who grew up to love a monster. she never liked that story, she erased it many times in her head. she erased it under my blue dress with grey stripes. she swept my vagina over and over again with clorox and a hard brush, until drops of blood appeared. then she rested on the broken floor, satisfied with the cleanliness between my legs and the familiar odor of javeli spirt around. i wish i was able to heal that cleanliness she left. after her death, her presence grew bigger. i wish i was able to clean her from my head, from under my dress, out of my vagina to be able to smell again. 

i receive all your letters with an uneasy joy. i wish you would write more often. your words are vital for this world that i created for myself; safe, ordinary and painless.

i wish we were sitting near the ocean where the loudness of the waves would've prevented us from speaking. i wish i was able to cut that walnut tree who witnessed everything. i wish you took my hand and stayed for a while, i wish we've read that book together over and over. i wish we wrote pages of stories of unknown people walking around us.

 i wish i could finish that book i started years ago.


 i wish i wasn't interrupted so much. 

 i wish i knew how to undo you.

L.

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