a letter to a friend

Glanced around the space I was surrounded by and felt a thumping reason to escape it. To my right – interesting men having an absorbing conversation I most probably could have interjected and interacted with. Across the way – a community I’ve felt pulsing that I wanted to ride the night with. Instead, I sneak into the back room and decide that what I need to do is write a letter. To whom? Three people seep into my head and I pull out my phone to write a hurried, modern-age message to them.

Instead, I grad my computer, my fluid pen & my mechanical pencil and I scurry out of my establishment toward home. On my way home, I think about those people that came to mind to write a letter to: Jessica, an ex-friend, my only ex-friend in existence. David, an ex-boyfriend, but really so much more to me and not deserving of such a connotative title; and Jackie, my sister, whom I could write any word to and not only would she accept it, she would admire and respond to it as if it mattered, even if it didn’t. Which, for me, words only matter when there is feeling behind them – and most often, any written letter, however meaningless, will have intention and the warmth of breathe: the thought and life of stories & purpose.

As I am considering who to write this letter to, I realize I am scurrying home, in a horny spasm of hope that writing will pour out of me. And when I do get home, I throw my jacket off, I toss my computer down on the bed and I begin to type into the computer as if it is a piano my fingertips make love to. And as I type, I realize my fluid pen, and my mechanical pencil, are spectators of this moment. Only they are the bystanders of this silent happening where there are words pouring out of me. I am in an empty, dark room in an empty, quiet house that I own. And I am flooded with auspicious surroundings. I am overwhelmed with tidy packages of opulence that I am aware of and suspicious of, yet I have known my whole life that I have been working toward manifesting these things. Life hasn’t been about building wealth or the right connections or the proper career opportunities toward success. I have hard hands with scars and dirty fingernails and the people that matter to me not only don’t mind my imperfections, these are the things that turn them on to friendship and acceptance of me. That I will dig into the dirt and contribute. That I will act awkward and silly and honest and myself. There is no better feeling than to be surrounded by people who know you and love you all the more for knowing you so well at what you are.

As I was coming down the alley toward my house, I saw a coin-shaped glow of moon yellow. I’ve seen a low hanging moon that tricked me into thinking it was a street light before. This vision wasn’t the moon, yet it gave me the same sensation. That I had seen something worth seeing, that could not be described or shared with anyone again, because it was so particular to the moment and sight.

I don’t want to verbally replicate moments or images or emotions for people. In the least, I want to inspire people to go out and get these moments, images and emotions for themselves. This world is brimming with inspiration and positivity; so much that it almost always causes me to lose my breath. I want this growth for humanity – however it may arise, I want internal art for everyone. It is the fuel for each personal soul. It is what allows us to manifest a purposeful future.