Dear Friend,
Have you ever gotten lost in your own head? My own head's a maze, a maze of mazes. There's an ouroboros in there somewhere, ever twisting, feeding on itself.
Sometimes I try to lay it out, like unfolding a map big enough to cover the floor. But I always get tangled.
Writing has always been an exercise in untangling the phrases that rise within me in a choked snarl, laying them out side by side, hoping that through the many detours, their streaming will lead to a sensible sea. (No sea was ever sensible, but no metaphor can ever be completely right.)
What of writing letters? Forging chains between us? Sometimes, a story tells itself only when there is someone else on the other side, with a ready ear to hear it. Maybe I will be able to tell you my story, or somebody else's story. Maybe someday you will tell me yours.
There is a boy who is not like any other boy in the world. A world, I should say. He does not belong to that world. We all feel like that sometimes. There seems to be this unspoken way of being, of thinking, and living, and we are all more or less striving for it. But we never manage it, because it demands too much from us, or else because it doesn't really exist.
What of this boy? He is an ordinary boy in an extraordinary world. Why is he important? Why is anyone important? I don't know that yet. But I am trying to find out.
Shall we play a game, my friend?
Yours,
Mayumi
Have you ever gotten lost in your own head? My own head's a maze, a maze of mazes. There's an ouroboros in there somewhere, ever twisting, feeding on itself.
Sometimes I try to lay it out, like unfolding a map big enough to cover the floor. But I always get tangled.
Writing has always been an exercise in untangling the phrases that rise within me in a choked snarl, laying them out side by side, hoping that through the many detours, their streaming will lead to a sensible sea. (No sea was ever sensible, but no metaphor can ever be completely right.)
What of writing letters? Forging chains between us? Sometimes, a story tells itself only when there is someone else on the other side, with a ready ear to hear it. Maybe I will be able to tell you my story, or somebody else's story. Maybe someday you will tell me yours.
There is a boy who is not like any other boy in the world. A world, I should say. He does not belong to that world. We all feel like that sometimes. There seems to be this unspoken way of being, of thinking, and living, and we are all more or less striving for it. But we never manage it, because it demands too much from us, or else because it doesn't really exist.
What of this boy? He is an ordinary boy in an extraordinary world. Why is he important? Why is anyone important? I don't know that yet. But I am trying to find out.
Shall we play a game, my friend?
Yours,
Mayumi
