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Don’t promise me
forever
or never.
Don’t promise me more
than you can.
Don’t give yourself
or me
expectations
that you cannot live up to.
Stop
looking into the future,
and be
here
with me now.
Promise me
now,
not tomorrow.
I don’t want tomorrow.
I want today.
And when tomorrow comes,
if you’re still here,
then promise me that day.
But don’t make the mistake
of forgetting
that forever
is an awfully long time.
Forever is
always.
Forever means
never changing.
And that is simply not possible.
The only thing
any person can
guarantee
is that change will happen.
I can promise you
that with each passing day,
I will grow and change,
sometimes for the better,
and sometimes not.
And right now,
I want to grow and change
with you
by my side,
doing the same thing,
hopefully in the same direction.
But if our directions veer
apart,
that’s ok,
because we would have
focused
on the moments in between
now and then,
and would have given it
our best shot.
So please,
don’t promise me
forever.
Don’t promise me
that this right
here
will never ever change.
Because I don’t want that,
and neither should you.
One day
I will understand,
I hope,
why you and I,
are you and I.
It’s not an easy answer.
That much I know.
Easy would be
understanding,
and trusting,
and accepting.
We don’t,
often,
do these things.
Except,
that’s not true.
We trust,
in the important things,
but not
the little.
We accept
the other as an individual,
but not
in disagreement.
And we never
understand.
Its funny,
isn’t it?
That we are still
you and I,
an us,
a friendship.
I don’t pretend
to understand it.
But
I suppose,
that in the end,
after you hurt,
and
I hurt,
and
we hurt each other,
all the matters are
the big things.
The important ones.
The ones that say,
I love you,
no matter how much
that little thing
made me want
to cry.
January 3, 2018
Daniel Bradford
83 Kenyon Street
Hartford, CT 06105
Dear Mr. Daniel B.,
I was very surprised both to receive your letter and at its content. It is very rare for an author to personally write back to a fan. I mean, everyone, in their own lives, is busy, but you know how it normally is with authors (It’s a ‘there’s a lot of us and only one of them’ kind of thing). I am also greatly shocked to learn that your book is, not only based on a true story, but upon your own life.
I am doubly impressed with your writing now knowing that you lived through it (And I believe you are wrong in your assessment of yourself, you deserve as much praise and credit as people are willing to give you, possibly more). I cannot imagine how you were able to sit down and write about what had to be a horrific time in your life. To be able to put into coherent words what you were feeling is remarkable indeed. I do not know if I would be able to do so myself, and I pride myself on being a strong person. But even I find there are times that I cannot cope with my memories or feelings in order to aptly share them with others.
There are times in each person’s life where we feel disconnected from others, as if there is not one person who can possibly understand what we felt, the emotional turmoil we were going through. At that time in your life, I am certain that is how you felt (forgive me for making assumptions, but that is what your character says, and I am currently working under the assumption that everything you wrote was true in its own way). But I hope that in writing and publishing your book and releasing it to the public, as well as the time that as past, has helped you cope in some way. The way I see things, there are two outcomes from publishing your story: either you will find that people can connect and understand your own feelings and therefore help you find some semblance of peace, or you will resent people even more for their inability to understand. I can only hope that you find the first is true. I would only seek to wish the best upon you, that you could find peace for a time in your life that must cut you very deeply.
All the best, Maggie Darton
December 23, 2017
Maggie Darton
13 Watch Hill
East Greenwich, RI 02818
Dear Miss Maggie Darton,
Let me begin by wishing you a Merry Christmas and a very Happy New Year (this is the part where I pray you celebrate Christmas and will not hate me if you do not).
I have mixed feelings (as I do with every fan) about your enjoyment, or perhaps a better word, affection for my book. As I am sure you understand, mine is not a happy tale. So whenever I am faced with praise from a reader or some sort of connection, I feel more than slightly uncomfortable.
In your letter, you asked me where I got my story, if I drew from my own life or the lives of others. To say I drew from my own life is an understatement, well actually it’s bigger than that but I cannot think of a word that aptly describes it. The book you read is my entire recollection of that time in my life. I have changed nothing from what actually occurred. I did not exaggerate or edit the facts. Sure I took some poetic liberties with my descriptions, but other than that my story is entirely true to my memory. You see it is this reason alone that makes me uncomfortable with the praise I receive for my writing. I do not seek to be praised for publishing my memories. I do not feel as if I deserve such praise because in truth I have done nothing to deserve it. I have not created an original story or breathed life into a work of art. Instead I gave the world insight into a time of my life I both never want to forget and remember.
Please do not misunderstand this letter. I appreciate your support and am happy that you found something within my book that you could connect to. But perhaps now, knowing that I have actually lived through it, you may understand why I wish people would not connect with it. I would never wish that grief and trauma upon anyone, or any sort of either on someone.
Best wishes,
Daniel B.
Sometimes
I sit and wonder.
I think about
the sky and the stars.
Sometimes,
silly things,
like,
why are they up so high?
Is it to make me feel smaller?
To appreciate the vastness
of the world around me?
Did God decide that the sky and the stars must be so far out of reach
as to make one feel their tininess?
Or was it done to make us reach
and want to reach for something
we can never touch?
And then I wonder,
why we reach for such things.
Things so far away from ever knowing
the brushing touch
of a human hand.
Why do we not reach for the trees?
It is undoubtedly easier for us to succeed.
Of course,
is it about success?
Do we wish to succeed
or wish to dream?
Dream,
I think.
At least,
I hope.
If we wanted to succeed,
we’d only reach for the trees,
we’ve touched those before.
What is it about the stars,
I wonder.
What is it that makes us want to reach up?
What is it about those sparkling specks in the sky
that inspire us to do things
we never really think we’ll do.
I wonder if it is the same everywhere.
With the stars.
Do they inspire all kinds of creatures,
even across the universes?
Perhaps they evoke fear in others.
And they pray to their gods
that the flaming specks of evil
shall never be brought down upon their world.
Are we right
to look to the stars for our dreams,
or should we fear them?
Perhaps we should fear our dreams.
Are our dreams not what make us aspire
to do great things?
Great,
but not good.
To live greatly
without a thought as to the consequences?
Would the world be better off if
we all aspired to be mediocre people,
with mediocre lives,
never dreaming beyond?
Sometimes,
I sit and wonder
about the stars.
Maybe they were just put there
to make us think.
January 10, 2018
Maggie Darton
13 Watch Hill
East Greenwich, RI 02818
Dear Miss Maggie Darton,
I feel I must confess to some momentary expression of excitement upon finding a somewhat familiarly addressed envelope waiting for me in my mailbox (and the ‘momentary’ is by no means a reflection upon yourself, but rather to confess to more would be highly unadvisable and probably bordering on creepy). I must thank you for your letter. I, and I am certain, many others, seldom come across individuals such as yourself, who truly care for the well being of others. It is an utterly refreshing sensation, and I must thank you for it.
I have never thought about it very much until you brought it to my attention, but I do believe I sought to find some sort of connection with people. I suppose I was searching for that peace you wrote of, the peace that comes with the understanding of others; that helps you move on because you know that you are not alone. I do not know that I have succeeded in this regard. I find myself impatient with others but not resentful. Or at least, I do not see myself as such. But until your letter, I am certain I did not find taht there were people who, in my opinion, understood.
Not that I believe that no other person as ever felt a devastating loss in their lifetime. Surely those who have lost their parents, or even children, can aptly understand the devastation a loss of such a dear person can cause. And I do not seek to put myself on their level. It is merely that in the past seven years or so, I have no found enough peace or closure to put it behind me, to only think of the good times. I have moved on to the point where I can think about her and not cry and 90% of the time I can think of a fond moment. But you see I do not merely mourn her loss, I feel responsible for it. Yes, I know it is not my fault; I have tried countless times to convince myself of this, but still the feeling remains. I know it was not I, who was driving that car, and it was not I who pushed her off that bridge, but I was the force responsible for her presence there. And that fact alone is what keeps that night lingering in my mind and dreams.
I find myself surprised at my own writing. It is not often I confide in anyone, let alone a stranger. But I must confess Maggie (I hope I may call you by your first name) that I feel that you might be that connection that I have been searching for. you mentioned in your last letter that there are times you cannot cope with your own thoughts and memories. And in your first letter, how everyone (I assume including yourself) has lost the kind of friend that Holly was to me. Perhaps you would be willing to share your story with me?
Daniel Bradford
December 13, 2017
Daniel Bradford
83 Kenyon Street
Hartford, CT 06105
Dear Mr. Daniel B.
I read your book today. I was so moved by it that when I finally finished reading it, I knew I had to write to you. It is not very often that I come across something that can make me feel what your book did. I am truly awed by your writing.
There was a softness here. A softness she had never known before. It was as if all the harsh lines of life had been erased. There were no shadows, no darkness lining the images. But there was light. It was impossible. How could there be light with no shadows? But there she stood, and there were none. She couldn’t remember. What she couldn’t remember she did not know. All she did know is that she had forgotten something. It was a strange feeling. The same feeling you get upon waking in the morning from a dream. The dream is lost to you, but you remember, you just know that you should remember it, but you have forgotten. It was the same feeling. But it did not provoke panic in her. You could not be panicked here. It was impossible, like the shadow-less lights. She moved now, slowly, for she could not and had no desire to move any faster than she was. And she found that everything was…fuzzy. Not just her mind that could not remember, but her surroundings as well. It was as if someone or something had taken the focus out of the place. There were no lines to distinguish shapes from the next, just a fluidity, a blending of all things: colors, shapes, lights. Everything. Then came the sound. Well, no. That was wrong. The sound, was it music? Yes, a soft melody. But it had been there all along. It was part of the place. It blended with everything else. It did not stand out to contrast the elements around her, but rather moved with each image, as if it were merely an alternate, audible way to view the surroundings. She desired to follow it to a source, to see if there were others. but there was no source. There could not be. The music merely existed as did each image she saw before her. There was no beginning. There was no end. It was just there.
The question of others brought another to her mind. Was she alone? The word sparked a memory, a fear of the word from before, from before this place. She did not fear the word, but she remembered fearing it. Was it a harsh word? She wondered. It must be, for it seemed to have no place here in this world without lines. There did not seem to be anything to fear, let alone a silly thing such as a word.
“It is not the word that is feared, but its meaning.” Came a voice on the wind. Like the music it did not seem to start or end. It spoke and then it did not. The voice fit this world, it suited it. Yet, somehow, she knew that such a voice should have seemed strange. But it did not alarm her. She merely pondered what had been said. She had not remembered that words had meanings. It seemed a strange concept, yet she recalled that it once made sense to her.
“The meaning of ‘alone’ must be very powerful. To fear it, it must be,” she reasoned.
“In another place, it is.” Came the voice again.
“And in this place?” she asked, curious. She sat down then upon the ground, not that she could tell where the ground and the sky met. There was no ending, or at least, none that she could tell. But she thought it strange that she would be sitting upon the sky.
“This place is different. There is no need to fear words or their meanings,” the voice answered her. She wondered why the voice was answering her questions. It had not done so before, when she awoke confused by the world without lines. Perhaps, it was bored, she mused.
“Boredom is another word that has no place here.” The voice answered, “You were not spoken to before, because you asked no questions. Confusion is expected, for here is very different from there.”
“Where is there?” She asked aloud. She could not remember where ‘there’ was, but she she knew she should. She knew she had been there before.
“You will remember, or you will not. Remembering is not so important here as it is there.”
“How long before I remember or do not remember?” She asked, thinking the question important. It was a question she would have asked when she was there she believed.
“Time is another word that only has meaning there,” the voice gave as an answer. She did not like that answer. It really did not answer the question she had asked.
“Are there others here?” She asked.
“Of course.” Came the simple reply.
“Where are they?” She asked again.
“You must wait until you forget how to see. Seeing is for there, not here. Once you forget, you will find the others.”
She did not understand that answer. To see the others, she had to forget how to see? It did not make sense to her. But maybe, it made sense here and she was still thinking like she was there.
“Can I see you?” She asked
“When you forget to see,” Came the answer.
The answer still confused her. But she did not have another question. She was not tired, and briefly wondered at that, but before the voice could answer such a musing, she answered it herself: it was another word that had no meaning in this place. And so she sat, knowing the voice was there to answer her questions , but she gently ignored it, instead choosing to watch the world without lines around her and to hear the music that flowed within it. She sat there, not thinking or waiting for anything, just seeing the world without lines. She sat there until it no longer mattered to her if she was sitting on the ground or the sky, until it no longer sounded funny to sit on the sky. She sat there until she no longer sought the differences between there and here. Until it no longer mattered to her. As she sat there, she no longer though of this place as the world without lines. Not that it magically became focused; it was still the same as when she first awoke to it. But instead, she forgot that the world was missing the harshness of there, the place before. As she sat there, she felt the voice, though she had no questions for it to answer. But as she sat there, on the sky, she felt the voice become stronger, not that it had lacked strength before. But whereas before it had existed in the images and sounds of the world without lines, neither starting or ending, not it had a place. She turned her head to the right to look at the man next to her.
“Are you the voice?”
“I am always your voice,” He answered.
“I know your face,” She said, surprised to recognize an image in this place, an image from before she had sat down.
“You will always know me,” He said in answer to the unspoken question beneath her words.
“I am glad,” she replied, truly elated at the thought. “Will you sit with me?” She asked.
“Always,” came the expected answer.
And so they did. Sit. Side by side in the world without lines. They watched the world around them. As they sat, other would join them or leave as the desire sprung in them. there were always others in the world without lines. Other who chose to drift and float. Some had not learned to forget how to see yet, and others still preferred wandering to watching. But they remained. Content to sit side by side, always together.
I’m fine.
Of course, I’m fine.
Just fine.
I’m always fine.
I mean I have to be.
You can’t control every little
goddamn situation,
if you’re not fine.
You can’t be the oldest sister
if you are not fine.
You can’t do your hair
and brush your teeth
or sing along to your favorite song
if you’re not fine.
So I’m fine.
/
I want to be great. Or okay.
Or even grand.
How about happy?
But I’m fine.
Fine.
Just…
Fine.
/
No. I’m not going to cry.
Well.
I forgot how to
like Dreaming.
You can’t dream there.
There’s a rule.
I hate rules.
Well, no
I don’t hate rules
I like rules
I hate
that I like them.
That I continue to let them govern my life.
That I let them still matter.
That I give them power
over you
over them
over me.
The rules
they’re what made me stop caring
a long time ago.
/
It’s not that I don’t want to care
I do.
I just don’t.
You can’t be fine
and care.
It doesn’t work.
Once you care
you’re not fine.
And I’m fine,
so I don’t care.
/
But what I don’t get
what I cannot understand
is why it hurts.
I don’t want it to hurt.
I don’t want to hurt
and be hurt.
I want to smile
and have every day
be filled with rainbows
and cotton candy
and dancing until night falls.
/
Well, I mean.
I don’t.
Not actually.
Who actually wants that?
But it’s nice to wish.
Wishing is close to Dreaming.
Maybe one day
I’ll dream again
when the clouds roll away,
when the thunder stops
and the lightening cracks.
When these floods disappear
and we see the sun again.
Maybe then
I’ll dream.
/
No really.
I’m fine.
Just.
Fine.
Are you even listening?
Why won’t you answer me?
I mean, will you just turn around and-
Fuck you
Go to hell
And fuck you.
I’m not going to waste my time
on some low-life piece of shit
who has no idea
No clue as to
What the fuck is going on in this-
I’m sorry.
I am. Really.
No. Please.
Just listen to me.
I just want to help.
I lo-
Look. Everyday, I look out that window
And I watch you try and try
over and over
again and again
to touch people.
To let your message be known.
To let them know that it’s okay.
That it’s okay to be alone
because we’re all alone together.
That even when you think
no one will understand
Someone will.
And I just want to help you do that.
Because I understand.
Because I know what you’re saying.
Because I am alone.
Because it’s beautiful.
Why?
Why can’t-
Why won’t you share that with me?
All I want to do is help-
Forget it.
Forget it and forget you.
I don’t need you.
I thought we could help each other
share something with the world
show them that it’s all right
to Be and to be Alone
because we’re not alone
Not really.
But no.
You can’t share.
Well fuck you.
Fuck you.
Fuck your message.
Fuck your words.
Fuck your song.
Be alone.
Be without for the rest of your life.
I may be alone
but we are not alone together.
