K,
I promised I'd write you a letter, but I'm too tired to get out of the house and the post-office is about a 15 minutes walk and the postman knows my mother. Too many problems. So this will have to be an email. I hope this doesn't get lost under your other, more important emails. Or I hope it does, I don't know.
I think of people in colours. You are yellow, I am grey. My old lover is red, your new lover is orange. I think I love her a little already. I think she must be a good person, if she is loved by you. She must be good because you are good, sound logic, right? I think love runs in ribbons, or in rivers, or in relay races. Sometimes it's a chain, sometimes it is in the air, sometimes it is in words, sometimes it is the concrete in the city, sometimes it bleeds, sometimes it sets you free.
I was thinking about why My Blueberry Nights does not hit with the same intensity that WKW's other films do. Other than the fact that it takes place on a flat American landscape, and we must hate everything American, it starts and ends at the same point, with blueberry pie. Lizzie comes back to Jeremy, full circle, happy ending. Life hardly, if ever, completes its circles. In life, people leave you and they don't come back. And you cry over them for days and days until one day when you stop crying and get over it. Sometimes you are the one to leave. Sometimes you fall in love with someone and then you fall in love with someone else and break three hearts in the process. Sometimes in life, you die, and that's that. Life is all zig zag lines, no circles.
I knew before I started writing this that I would never actually send this to you. Maybe I will post it on my blog that no one reads. Words, once uttered, clamour to be heard. Maybe I just want to be understood, just a little bit, by someone else in some other city. Maybe I want my words to be read before I run out of them completely, before they lose all their meaning. My old lover once said that I refused to say anything without converting it to poetry. She said that was the problem. I took it as a compliment. That was a long time ago anyway, I have grown out of poetry since then. Between you and me, I don't know what any of this means.
No promises about next time. Don't think too much. We are all going to die ugly insignificant deaths, either way. Isn't that a relief?
Keep safe,
P
