An Open Letter to the Writer

I’ve read your words, over and over again until I can read the words back to you, but I could still look at it one more time and see your words from a different place. When you put your words into paper, when your fingers type out all the thoughts that rattle your mind, do you wonder whose eyes they may reach, or who on the other side of the world would write back to you?

Maybe you do, or maybe you don’t, but a day inside your mind would be the greatest adventure I could take, because the gyri and the folds of that complex but beautiful place inside your head talk about distance like it’s your favorite hiding place, love like it’s your best disguise, and they whisper words to me that blend the colours of the world together to make me feel as though I’ve touched every rainbow that ever touched the land.

Your words feel so tangible that I spend days trying to touch the words you write, as I slowly drown myself in the ocean of thoughts you’ve drowned yourself in first, and for the first time drowning feels like a place I’ve known. In this corner of the world where your words are the only home I know, I’ve made a blanket with the stories you’ve told, the haikus you’ve written and all the love you’ve spilled onto paper. And as your heart bleeds in the colours of black ink, I’ve stretched out my fingers to touch the edges of the worlds between yours and mine, and I run my fingers between the nuances that keep us so close, yet so apart. And like a bus bound in the right direction, but to the wrong destination I’ve joined you on a journey and I don’t even know when I did.

Your words reach me in the most unusual ways. Some, I find in my post box just after a walk with my dad and some on my computer screen at 03:00 am when I’m sipping my third coffee for the night, but despite what time they reach me they always seem to touch me in a way no one else has ever before. And somehow between then and now, between the reader in me and the writer in me, I’ve fallen in love with the person you’ve made yourself to be. And so I look at your words, and I stare a little longer because the furthest I’ll ever be to you is also the closest and I can’t imagine anything more intimate than how raw your words are and how your emotions are all just sprawled across the pages in the hours between dusk and dawn.

And I don’t know if my words would ever be the kind of depth that you’d take a moment to think about, but I hope they are, and I hope they reach you- because I look at your words, and I know no one’s ever seen you more. I look at the spaces between your lines and the way you dot your ‘i’s and cross your ‘t’s and I know I couldn’t ever get any closer to you than this. Out there for everyone to read, and yet your secret is so well in disguise that it makes me wonder if you fell in love with words, if you became a writer… just so that I can fall in love with you.

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2 Comments (+add yours?)

  1. Imperfect Picture
    Jan 02, 2017 @ 16:35:30

    Really love this piece! Wonderfully written =)

    Reply

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