A Letter To...
Entry by: jaguar
30th April 2015
Dear Family and Friends,
Or anyone who feels an absence, or is, momentarily, blinded by a loss. I know how it is when the sun goes cloud diving. I can see your chosen path strewn with barricades and brambles. I watched with you, as your hope became a feeble, smoke-wisped thing, sucked-out of air.
If you’re reading this - my last letter - I am dead. Which means I was absolutely done with life. Which means I was happy to leave, but I’ll miss you. So I’m hanging on, just a little, to let you go gently.
Do you remember the brightly coloured, loose woven sheets of paper we covered with frantic pen-scratched thoughts? I will miss the colours I chose for you, matched to your needs – yellow to lift, red to make your pulse stronger or the soothe of blue.
Think of the pad of clean sheets and the depth your words could reach in a letter. Think of how they soared in comparison to an email's sniping and a text's spit. Then you will understand why I'm writing to you now. Every letter is a story from our lives.
I wanted my final thoughts to be enabling and chase others through your mind. Instead my aim now is to clamp your feelings and control your thinking. Learning is the only upside of loss. So don’t live the way I did unless you want to be magnified, then shrunk. Unless you want to be poisoned glass by glass even as they expand your view.
If you stretch the way I have, you must expect the sag. Yet, out of every little insight, I've crafted a new perspective. Changing your mind is humanity's super-power, that is our strength.
Many of you were patches of sun that lit up trails in me and showed me new ways through my self-inflicted stops. More were plants that flamed bright in certain seasons. If you’re reading this today you were, and are, important to me.
Yours sincerely,
Psyche
PS My final gift to you is the thought my father left to me. I don't want you sad.
Or anyone who feels an absence, or is, momentarily, blinded by a loss. I know how it is when the sun goes cloud diving. I can see your chosen path strewn with barricades and brambles. I watched with you, as your hope became a feeble, smoke-wisped thing, sucked-out of air.
If you’re reading this - my last letter - I am dead. Which means I was absolutely done with life. Which means I was happy to leave, but I’ll miss you. So I’m hanging on, just a little, to let you go gently.
Do you remember the brightly coloured, loose woven sheets of paper we covered with frantic pen-scratched thoughts? I will miss the colours I chose for you, matched to your needs – yellow to lift, red to make your pulse stronger or the soothe of blue.
Think of the pad of clean sheets and the depth your words could reach in a letter. Think of how they soared in comparison to an email's sniping and a text's spit. Then you will understand why I'm writing to you now. Every letter is a story from our lives.
I wanted my final thoughts to be enabling and chase others through your mind. Instead my aim now is to clamp your feelings and control your thinking. Learning is the only upside of loss. So don’t live the way I did unless you want to be magnified, then shrunk. Unless you want to be poisoned glass by glass even as they expand your view.
If you stretch the way I have, you must expect the sag. Yet, out of every little insight, I've crafted a new perspective. Changing your mind is humanity's super-power, that is our strength.
Many of you were patches of sun that lit up trails in me and showed me new ways through my self-inflicted stops. More were plants that flamed bright in certain seasons. If you’re reading this today you were, and are, important to me.
Yours sincerely,
Psyche
PS My final gift to you is the thought my father left to me. I don't want you sad.
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