Dear Friend,
How much is graspable in this life? Graspable. Why that word? It's a very greedy word. But most people I know are greedy. For touch, for acknowledgment, for love, for money. What about me? I am greedy too in my own way, but at the same time, I am ashamed to want what I want. (It does not stop me from wanting it.)
I write to make sense of what I see and think and feel. Some people draw to own the landscape, or take pictures to remember moments that pass by too fast. We lean on our tools. What would I be without a pen in my hand? (Or a keyboard?)
Some days I call it a coping mechanism. I have a lot of those. Sometimes I can't tell a coping mechanism and an addiction apart. Coping with what? With life. What is so terrifying about life? I can't even begin to answer that question. For me, what isn't terrifying?
I wish I could plot my life out in graphs and charts, lists and outlines. I wish I could draw a map to follow. But I don't even know how to walk with the crowd. There's so much that other people take for granted that I close my eyes to. Adulthood. I used to feel so fucking accomplished because I had a savings account. Now I feel wearied by it all. The pressure to settle down with a good job, with a loved one. The pressure to grow up. Can't I be a kid forever? And yet, to go back is to be just as miserable. The only way out is to walk on.
I've always been fascinated by labyrinths. You circle round and round, to get to the heart of the maze, where a monster waits. Sometimes, there is no monster, just your own face staring back at you. "You must own the labyrinth," a poet told me once, a piece of writing advice I have since cherished. But some days, it feels better to give it away to the wind, to just walk and get a little bit lost.
I dream of nomads. I dream of being chased. I shape shift, switch genders on a whim, cast spells, talk to spirits. In my dreams, I can always fly.
Yours,
Mayumi
How much is graspable in this life? Graspable. Why that word? It's a very greedy word. But most people I know are greedy. For touch, for acknowledgment, for love, for money. What about me? I am greedy too in my own way, but at the same time, I am ashamed to want what I want. (It does not stop me from wanting it.)
I write to make sense of what I see and think and feel. Some people draw to own the landscape, or take pictures to remember moments that pass by too fast. We lean on our tools. What would I be without a pen in my hand? (Or a keyboard?)
Some days I call it a coping mechanism. I have a lot of those. Sometimes I can't tell a coping mechanism and an addiction apart. Coping with what? With life. What is so terrifying about life? I can't even begin to answer that question. For me, what isn't terrifying?
I wish I could plot my life out in graphs and charts, lists and outlines. I wish I could draw a map to follow. But I don't even know how to walk with the crowd. There's so much that other people take for granted that I close my eyes to. Adulthood. I used to feel so fucking accomplished because I had a savings account. Now I feel wearied by it all. The pressure to settle down with a good job, with a loved one. The pressure to grow up. Can't I be a kid forever? And yet, to go back is to be just as miserable. The only way out is to walk on.
I've always been fascinated by labyrinths. You circle round and round, to get to the heart of the maze, where a monster waits. Sometimes, there is no monster, just your own face staring back at you. "You must own the labyrinth," a poet told me once, a piece of writing advice I have since cherished. But some days, it feels better to give it away to the wind, to just walk and get a little bit lost.
I dream of nomads. I dream of being chased. I shape shift, switch genders on a whim, cast spells, talk to spirits. In my dreams, I can always fly.
Yours,
Mayumi
