Melange Magazine

Creative Non-fiction

Letters from myself:
without words to describe the moment
By SHANE LAVALETTE

I rarely think things through. This was no exception. I didn't think.

I just didn't. I couldn’t. Right about now, I shrug.

Me. Twenty three years-old. My state of mind borders on suicidal. I’m lonely. It’s funny how we can break ourselves down. Just toss adjectives up into the air and hope they fall in place. Stretch to fit. My heart is broken into a thousand pieces that I’ll never pick up.

My world is pathetic.

I fell in love with black and white, words on paper. Like you fall for people in movies or in books -- because there is something missing; something you need but aren't getting at the time. There were lots of things I needed that I wasn't getting. The reality of the situation. The reality that I rejected. And argued with. And made love to. And leaned on. And ran from.

I repeated this cycle until I felt I couldn't anymore. Until it found me. But perhaps that is my path. No matter how dysfunctional it has been at times. I am not willing to give that up, try as I may, for anyone, even that fantasy. I thought I could love someone. Someone who had the sweetest voice in the world, the heart of an artist, the idealism of a child. Beautiful writing. Poetry.
I don't write poetry. I hide in words.

Because.

Butterflies are only there for so long. Everything is only pretty for some time. And often fuck is the only word that understands what I'm trying to say. Sometimes there are no words to describe moments. I've gotten tired of trying to dress up depression in pink ribbons made of smiles and smiles while trying to make runny mascara abstract art. ‘Cause sometimes I don't want to be art. Or artistic. Or poetic. Or even proper. Sometimes I want to let my words assume the role of a woman and sit with their legs wide open in public. Without apologies.

This is not poetry. Yeah, maybe lacking structure. But I'm no poet.

My words don't do ballet. They aren't classically trained to mimic swans.

My words are more like the guys who close their eyes at clubs and just move. Without caring what they look like. Or if they sweat. Not there to pick up chicks. They didn't come to grind anyone.

That’s what I do. Pretty hasn't got anything on me.

I read people’s journals when they aren't around. Read about the lives of other people who I don't know. The details of their lives. What they bought from the store. Why they fought with their friends. The co-workers who they are attracted to. The conversation they held with their mothers. Everything. They paint their pictures with the finest of brushes.

This past week has brought a new question to my mind... "Who am I?"

Does it really matter? Maybe I am indifferent. Because I am a true believer in ‘live and let live’. As long as what you are living isn't interfering with the living of another... why does it matter?

Just be.

Don’t let yourself become one who wears intelligence like a Girl Scout badge of privilege. Don’t create oceans between yourself and the ‘masses’. Your hair doesn’t make you original, your shoes aren't your walk, college degrees certainly don't make YOU.

We are all separated by one thing, opportunity.

Who am I? I’ve learned an incredible amount in the last few years of my life.

And here I am thinking about you, among other things but it's you, nonetheless, and pondering life. Pondering all of my allegories; wondering if they are really realities. Wondering if you'd be thinking of me right now if you were alive, looking at the pile of letters from you.

I don't know why.

I never go into details. I always leave my world open to interpretation. And laugh inside myself when people guess wrong. Over analyze. Under estimate. Stand clueless, waiting for explanations. Why?

One of my counselors said the most essential thing in life is to establish a heartfelt communication with others. I think we need the communication with ourselves more than others.
I never offer more. Some people think before they speak, I plan. Rehearse my conversation. Try to omit details that might lead people closer to the source. Closer to me. I like the mystery that surrounds me. I live in it.

Put two scoops of it in each of my morning cups of tea.

Again. I've stopped waiting for a response. ‘Cause I hate waiting. Hate feeling like I was forgotten. Maybe that's why I don't write letters anymore, except to myself. The chance that there will be no reply? The chance that the person on the other end will die suddenly and not ever write back again?

That’s what happened.

* * *

I came home one day after working at the used clothing store down Bittersweet St. A local thrift shop. Dollar per pound items, you know. At this point my mailbox was broken, the flap hanging like a rusted puppy’s tongue on a hot afternoon. I never get mail, never check for mail.

That day I did.

I looked at the stack of bills piled in the mailbox which was stealing all of the breathable air within the space provided. Slipped carefully on the right side of the mailbox was a lustrous white envelope, quite contrasted with the bulk of mail that had lingered there for weeks -- the ones that curled with dampness, time, yellowing. I brought the white one inside.

I peeled the envelope open. The seal broken, the tongue that tied it. Who was this letter from? The return address was unfamiliar. Naliana Jamieson. Skyshrine, Colorado. Her hand writing was pure and flowing, that of a calligraphist. Inside I found a story, alone – attached with a note that said, “It made me think of you, that’s all.” The letter wasn’t meant for me. It was clear that this was nobody I knew from anywhere.

The story was about a young girl who was captivated with spinning. It made her feel infinite, everything. So much more than everything. It made her feel alive, made her five year-old self feel absolute.

I loved the story, read it eight times at least. Deeper than my love for the story, I fell for the words. Persuasive. Fluent. Eloquent. Naliana certainly had a way with words. I sat down that evening. It was storming that night, raining hard. It got dark early and the air turned cold with the lack of light. I wrote Naliana a letter. I didn’t know her. I didn’t expect to have any connection with her in the future either. I wanted to tell her that her beautiful story ended up in the wrong location, but I was utterly pleased to have it here. I wrote the letter and found myself too exhausted to stay up, I needed sleep.

That night I dreamt of Naliana.

I saw her.

In the dream, she was the spinning little girl. She grew as she revolved, developing slowly into the woman she must be today. I watched it all. So pretty and so delicate. She had eyes that went for miles and the kind of smile that was always there, her lips soft and precise. I noticed all the details. I noticed more than I’ll tell.

The next morning I felt the day to be endless. It was Saturday, if my mental calendar was right. I decided a trip to the hardware store was in great need. Yeah, I got myself a new mailbox. A shiny new, top of the line, sweet mailbox. I planted it. Watered it. Stood proud at it’s lack of rust. I felt like a new mailbox myself that day.

Excitedly, I tossed the letter addressed to Naliana in the box and threw the little red flag up for the nice little mailman to know I had a letter that was going out. To someone. Naliana. The day was full of sunshine. I spent the rest of it in the city walking along the path at Turtle Pond, daydreaming of this girl.

I had developed a craving to check my mailbox, maybe because it was new, I don’t know. Every time I left my house or arrived home, I took a peek. Surprisingly, no bills until Friday. But within the stack of bills I noticed something so wonderful it made my stomach jump and my palms sweat a little. Naliana had responded. One week since her first accidental letter, I realized. I immediately, of course, hurled the other letters onto the table as I went inside and brought Naliana’s to my bedroom.

My room was poorly lit. The light came through the window, but only as the shade would let it. Only in two small cracks of piercing white. I opened it slightly and sat on the edge of my bed. In the letter she confirmed it was a mistake. It wasn’t quite meant to come to my mailbox. She mentioned that her sister lives on the same street as I -- Bittersweet St., and that the letter must have been misplaced. Finally, she expressed how happy she was to receive my kind words about her writing. She said that she’s been writing since she was very young and, in fact, the girl in the story was her. My dream wasn’t so crazy after all, I thought. She asked me a few questions and brought me a bit closer to who she actually was. The more detail about her, characterization, the more I felt as if I had known her forever.

The second letter took seven days to receive. A week. I wrote back and got another on the next Friday. Again, we seemed to write our letters on the same day that we received each other’s and send them out the next day. This caused a perfect rotation of writing, where two letters could be sent out within a week.

As Naliana told me more about her, I opened up myself as well. We continually wrote letters for three years. Before I knew it, I was twenty six. It’s amazing how these things happen.

And I felt as if in those three years, I had spent so much time with Naliana. I felt as if we had gone together to eat, walked together along the water, had late night talks under the stars, drove together on road trips, and even made passionate love. I felt like she was my girlfriend, my lover and she felt the same about me. I suppose we talked about meeting each other some day, we wrote about it. Our stories entangled, knotted as one.

It was Saturday. I began to put my letter in the mailbox and smiled as Carl, the mailman came rolling up. I paused and took it out, gave my smile to Carl and handed him the letter.
“Good day,” he said.

“That it is, Carl. That it is!” I grinned.

The week went by very slowly from then on. Awfully slow. But not as slow as what was to come. I didn’t receive a letter by Friday, or over the weekend, or the next week, the one after, or the rest of November. We had snow lining the street, seemingly growing. I hate how snow looks on the road when it mixes with dirt. Slush.

All the way into December before I wrote another letter. Maybe my letter was misplaced as hers was. Maybe it got lost and she never received it. But I wondered if she would write another to me without receiving one in between. We had, in the last three years, alternated writing. Always.

No response.

No sound.

I felt like I was going crazy again. I’ve been doing really well the last months, very possibly the best I’ve ever felt. I looked up at the sky and watched the snow fall into my eyes. Gray sky. Ugly like the slush, everything felt ugly. Lonely. I felt alone again, that was it.

Eventually I found myself not being able to eat. Not being able to sleep. Only spending time curled in my bed, shivering without heat. I’ve never paid those bills. I trembled and reading our story, all the letters. It was our story.

And all stories have endings. Dull. Unobtrusive. Fleeting. Quick. Witty. Predicatable. Happy. Sad. Whatever. Our story felt like it could never end.

I looked at the letter in my hand. It was a letter she had wrote to me about how amazing she feels when she reads my thoughts. When she sits down with a letter from me and looks closely at my hand writing. Beautiful movements, she calls them.

My eyes went blurry again, tears warm and throbbing. They were sore and swollen. Raw.

I heard a knock on the door and felt myself get up to answer. I shifted my way to the other end of the small house, peaked out of the window next to the door, but it was fogged up from the difference in temperature of the two sides of glass. I couldn’t tell who was there. And when I opened the door, beautiful movement, I didn’t recognize the person.

Before me was the closest thing that I could imagine to Naliana, but no – it couldn’t be. She came all the way across the country to see me? I’ve never had anyone come visit my house, let alone travel cross country to see me. Her eyes were watery from the cold, mine from tears.

She looked at me and everything sort of paused before she began to speak. I looked at her red cheeks, her jacket and hat. Her smile was very much on the surface, but seemed to be somehow warming. She was putting a lot of effort into it, and could tell she didn’t know what to say. The first words to come out of her mouth.

After what could have been minutes of just looking at each other, I felt things move again.
“My sister,” she said. My heart stopped now.

“Naliana?”

“Yes, my sister. She, she’s--”

“We have been writing each other for over three years now, tomorrow will mark four years. December 23rd,” I said as cheerfully as I could manage. Christmas is soon, I thought.

“She never told me about you, but when we went through her house we found letters. Lots of them. Yours.”

I smiled.

“There were two left out on her desk that I thought you should to have. One was never finished, never put into an envelope and never signed. Left out on her desk. The other was addressed and stamped, but never mailed. I read the beginning of the unfinished letter and couldn’t read on, but immediately I made the connection that you were a very important person in her life. I know she’d want you to have these.”

I stared in absolute terror. I didn’t want to read the letters. It was as if I was accepting two knives into my heart as she then handed me the envelopes.

“I’m sorry,” she said. Turned, and walked into the snowy night.

I don’t need to go into detail. I never have and never will. It’s awful mourning something so intangible. Indefinable. I can say without hesitating.

That night I read her letters, the unfinished one an expressive apology. No, it was a horrible apology. How do you kill yourself and say sorry to someone so fond of you, so close? Was I in love with her?

She’s dead and I’m dead with her. But what we had was real only in my mind. Is it as momentous as being real in the world? The other letter was a story of two children, a little boy and a little girl spinning together. Holding hands. Ridiculously perfect.

The recollections of three years all in black and white. Like a poem.

I don't write poetry, though. Because butterflies are only there for so long, everything is only pretty for some time. I’ll never forget about Naliana. Never search for her. Never speak to her sister again. Never look myself in the eyes.

You’d feel broken, too.

Intangible.

Without words to describe the moment.