Dear K,
Was there ever any chance for us?
I mean right now I'm not so sure there was ever any chance for me.
My right nostril is bleeding right now. It is my fault. I thought that my arm would stop my fist before it hit my nose. That was my fault, I should have known that I'm stronger than I let on.

I'm messed up. Right now I don't think that anyone thinks I'm worth anything.

God is the cruelest person I've ever prayed to.

Apologies for introducing myself, K.

Dear K,

Lately I've been listening more. This isn't a good thing. I listen too much already. A person is supposed to have a healthy balance right? Take in give out. But I just don't have anything to give out. I'm getting greedy. I just want to sit and listen and never have to say anything ever again.

If I sewed my mouth shut do you think people would notice? I think I'd like to do that. I'd like to have the assumption out there that I'm not going to reply.

But I guess that's half the point of listening, people want you to reply, because they think that if you don't say anything then you haven't heard anything.

I'm just tired of being who I am and I want to move on and move away. I want so badly to leave.

Leaving,

K.

Reality: We're Both So Bad At It

Dear K,

What does it matter where I live? You live in dreams all day. You have your head in the clouds, I love this about you, but you need to come down from there. When was the last time you told anyone how you really feel.

So what if I want to be across the ocean again? You want to live the bohemian life. I'm getting my degree in something useful, I'm going to make things happen for me. I've got plans and goals. I'm going to get back there.

I know you'll say that it is stupid to live for somebody else. Probably because you think I'm living for him, I'm not. It is about more than him. When I was there I was free to be what I am. They didn't know me, I was a complete mystery to everyone I met, and instead of believing that they knew who I was they took the time to understand who I could be. Maybe that's why I'm trying to get back so hard, so I can become that person I wish I was.

Affections Tainted by Past Interactions,

K

reunited but alone

Dear K-

It has been some time since I’ve heard from you. I guess I always expected that when you returned you would be more eager than ever to see me, to pick up where we had left off, have glorious adventures together and give me great inspiration to write about in my novel. What ever happened to the plans of chess games, coffee dates, and drinking beer until we couldn’t see straight? I guess when you’re an ocean away, it’s easier to make plans and promises about what will be. When it comes time to execute, you always did falter at the gates. But then again, I’ve never been the most motivated individual, either.

It is almost disappointing how much you seem to miss it. You spoke so much of how you didn’t miss this life, you didn’t miss a single soul…and yet now here you are longing for a distant coast and a time zone seven hours ahead of our own. My advice? Come back to face reality. You’re in America; there are people here who care about you just as much, if not more. You have a good life here. Are you really just going to look over all that and run off again?

You can’t keep running.

I stopped running a long time ago. I’m not saying that I’m happy, but at least I’m not as miserable as some people. You have to take what you’re given. I’m making the best of what I’ve been dealt. It’s not a royal flush, but I still have a pair of nines. Things will eventually start to turn my way if I am patient long enough.

I know you have trouble understanding that. You always feel the need to be busy every second, every hour, every day. What are you trying to distract yourself from? Are you just treading water?

It somewhat reminds me of the story of the mice in the bucket of cream…some just gave up, stopped swimming, and drowned. But one mouse kept swimming, kept struggling, and eventually churned the cream into butter and saved himself from drowning.

But I don’t think we’re mice in a bucket of cream. Wake up, face life, live.
Regards,
-K

Dear K,

I'm not sure which one I am anymore. Now that we, (I) (Us) are in K, I am a little bit confused. Am I you or am I me? With the geographical divide things were easier. I knew where you were, and you knew where I was.

Maybe things will get better though. I think we're separating in the spring again. Then we will know who is who, and why.

Maybe then we will talk more, like we used to, even when all the little things in our lives got in the way.

I wish you could be happy here.

I wish I could be happy here.

I have to go now, somewhere and someone else is calling me.

-K.

empty plates and expectant pages

Dear K-

I was happy to hear from you again. It has truly been far too long, and I was beginning to think you had forgotten about me. You are no doubt living an exciting and amazing life in Slovenia, what with Nejc and all, and surely it wouldn’t be too hard to forget about us back in the states. Just know that I hadn’t forgotten about you.

This letter is actually difficult for me to write. It isn’t that I don’t have the desire to write it, but more along the lines of that I have very little about which to write. My life lately has been like a railway timetable. It is just a serious of times and destinations, flipping rapidly to refresh once one task has been carried out. There is little adventure to it, and it is more of just a routine and progression of time. Trains come in, trains go out, and the dazs keep slipping by.

There’s that expression people commonly use, when they feel overwhlemed or overworked, where they exclaim ¨my plate is full.¨ Well, right now I am the opposite. My plate is completely bare, void of any substantial foodstuffs or tasty morsels. In fact, one could say it was like a styrofoam plate. It feels flimsy, cheap, and brittle. Patiently it sits in my hands, waiting to be loaded full. I just can’t seem to decide what to eat.

When I try to work on the novel I run into some similar complications. The first few chapters are laid out upon a tenative frame, and I believe I have some good sketches and concepts for further developing the characters. However, there is always that point in the night, deep in my work, when suddenly I cannot push any further. Everything is barren and blank, bleached and bare. The few thoughts that piddle around in my head are frail and useless.

Sometimes, when I really feel stuck, I bring out the old typewriter. Nothing makes you feel more productive than when you hear that rattling snap of the keys pounding their strokes into place. It’s the percussive soundtrack to progress and accomplishment. These days, however, I have more and more frequently found myself staring listlessly at the blank page. I thread the fresh, supple paper into the maw of the beast, pose my fingertips on the proper keys…but then I can’t bring myself to write. The page lies pure and unsullied, waiting expectantly. Minutes turn into hours and hours into days, yet still I feel the same and the page remains.

As always, I miss you. Hopefully soon I will find the ink and the inspiration to fill my pages. Until then,

--K

Some Things Are Not Allowed To See The Sun Rise.

Dear K, 

I'm in Slovenia now. My heart isn't bruised yet, but I'm bracing for the blow. Time isn't like a river you know. Only our memories are. A river is a very apt metaphor for memories. Because rivers aren't constant. They fork and branch and flow to the place of least resistance. Rivers fill in gaps where we forget details and they invent new ones, and always they flow forward. We can try and push against the current, but all we can do is look backward up the river. 

I'm homesick, I think. Or I was. I'm with Nejc. He's the person I kept nameless for so long. We're visiting his parents and friends, and all the places that make up his home. We've ridden our bikes around the city, Ljubljana. 

I feel a sort of paralysis here. The whole place is beautiful and, really the word is golden, but I can't touch or experience anything without Nejc by my side. I've never been so dependent on someone. 

To make things worse, I broke down the other night, I started crying. Crying is something I do rarely, but when I cry, I really let go. To calm me down Nejc picked up an english copy of Cat's Cradle and started reading it to me. At first, through the tears, I thought it was ridiculous, and I had to help with a few hard pronunciations. By chapter seven I was no longer crying. Instead, I was listening to his voice, listening to him form the words, like his voice was climbing over slick boulders on a riverbank. The struggle over unfamiliar shapes just to reach me is what brought me out of my tears. 

The next night we had nothing to do so he made tiramisu. As he handed me an oversized fork he explained the rule of tiramisu. "It is such an ephemeral dish" he said, "that it cannot be allowed to see the sun rise." So we ate, we distracted ourselves with talking and watching familiar things. I started eating with hunger, I ate to fill myself, fill the emptiness in my stomach, but soon I started to savor the dessert. We talked and talked, about nothing and everything, we talked just to hear each other's voices, and then we would fall silent just to listen to the other person's silence. 

When we were about halfway done I realized I never wanted the dessert, or the night, or Nejc and I to end. I wanted to be with him at the worn wooden table eating tiramisu forever. 

But some things are not allowed to see the sun rise. 

Hoping the world will stop for a just a little while, 

K.