Perhaps there will never be the best possible letter ever written. I have almost nothing to tell you. On reading back over some of these letters, I discover, with complete aghast, that most of the time, I speak as though I know you personally, which I don’t. I suppose I get feelings and wonder to myself, why is he so sad? When you are not sad at all. It takes a great effort on my part, not to keep asking (pestering), writing again and again, note after note, letter after letter, each one separate yet the same every day, several times a day.
So then, you conceive your thoughts and I mine and the great task of daily living falls on each of our shoulders in different ways, in different cities, States, perhaps even countries, for all I know, I know nothing.
So it’s the heart. All my life I’ve been thinking it was my intuition that drove me, my keen sense of perception, my isolation at knowing others’ distress, when all along it’s been my heart, knocking about, fully exposing itself to false alarms. Everything I do not know, concerning you, and I really do not know, unlocks in me this constant riddle between my head and my hand. A letter! I think. A letter! I’ll write a letter. Only my head just sits there and my hand is put to work. No, I can’t get rid of my heart. To do so would cause the rest of me to disappear. I’d be nothing left. A wardrobe maybe, a mop of uncontrollable hair.
Why are you sad?