Unsent Letters

Dear Stranger,

1. I’m going to tell you now I’m a bit harder to love than most. It’s because I grew up with

ghosts at my home and fallen debris. I turned myself into an armor of steel so I would be

protected from slashes and whips and people like you who might break me.

2. Sometimes I would need you to cut through my barriers and reach me. Sometimes I

would need you to knock on my door when it’s closed. Sometimes I would need you to

love me a little bit louder.

3. Dear Stranger, I’m going to tell you now that if you are here to stay, I would ask too

much.

4. I have a mixed up relationship with my depression, dearest. It comes and it goes and

sometimes it takes over and I can’t control it. I would need you to hold my hair and keep

my head up when I vomit my life all over the sink.

5. I won’t ask you to tell me that things are going to be okay, because I have enough

wisdom to know that they won’t always be. I won’t ask you to hold my hand and tell me

to turn over to self love, because I don’t have any.

6. Self love is a blanket I cover myself in when I go to sleep at night, occasionally with

punctured holes and flaws whenever my thoughts have taken over or when someone

throws hurtful words at me. Self love is a luxury I couldn’t afford, not when I spent this

long drowning in too much loathing.

7.Dear Stranger, I am not alright. I’ll be okay on some days and I would laugh at your

jokes and hug you tight and kiss your lips. I’ll believe in a parallel world where my life

isn’t taken over by a lonely sky. I’ll fumble my way through crossroads and horizons, just

so I could meet you halfway. I won’t leave you alone and I’ll try harder to get to you, it’ll

only take time for me to get there day by day. I would ask for you to be extra patient with

me and careful, as I don’t know what I’m doing.

8. I kept all the butterflies in my stomach in a jar hidden somewhere in my closet. I

would need them at nights when I’m tangled up in your sheets and need to feel

something.

9.This would be a burden, but I ask you to keep me away from my family.

10. Dear Stranger, for all of this, I am sorry. I just need you to love me.

by Cariza Opana

featuring artwork from Aubrey Llamas

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Existential Awakening on the Dreadful Avenue of Love Declined

“The heart was meant to be broken.” – Oscar Wilde

My heart failed me in love once before. It couldn’t take me to the finish line of a spirited summer romance, so I fell and broke it into a million little pieces. It pumped blood as usual, but I was dead, buried in the depths of despair. What a horrible time it was! Lonely and dull, my nights went on forever. The days did too. Food lost its appeal, so did the company of my closest friends.  A stubborn heaviness formed. I felt like a beast of burden whose work was never done on my worst days, and like a child of Sisyphus on my best, cursed with doing things to relieve my oppressive mood just to sink into gloom again as soon as I showed any noticeable sign of improvement. There’s no doubt about it, I was on THE DREADFUL AVENUE OF LOVE DECLINED.

Walking that desolate street, my spirit saddened with every step. I was asked a serious question: “are you strong enough to be alone, to walk this life without having a sadomasochistic bond with another?” The answer was a bitter no. It took me a while to realize that, though. In the meantime, I carried on in miserable denial. All sorts of clever games and rationalizations were invented to keep me away from an unpleasant veracity. It wasn’t my fault; I wasn’t the stupid one. Everything was on her. Such were my thoughts. Oh, how desperately I fought to hide my faults and feebleness from myself! But I couldn’t! I really couldn’t!

Her imperishable smile was burned in me. When I closed my eyes, it’s all I saw. It caused me to lose sleep. Many nights of diverse emotions where spent awake in acerbic contemplation of that smile and its owners whereabouts. I wanted to know where she was and who she was with. I wanted to call so badly, but I couldn’t. My pride wouldn’t allow it and even if it did, I’m doubtful that she’d have answered, so I continued on in dark desperation, lost in my summertime sadness.

Worst yet, a part of me didn’t want to be found. I wanted to think of her and hurt. I suppose, to a wounded soul hiding its deepest feelings inside an elaborate mental fortress (a sort of inner babelicstructure), an unhealthy “kiss with a fist” imagination of romance is pleasing.

Eventually, though, my psychological tower of babel tumbled down. With time and luck (A WHOLE LOT OF LUCK), I started to wake up – to open up my eyes and see. I soon saw my world for it was – an illusion. I saw that my feet weren’t on reality’s terra firma and that my expectations were guided by lazy thinking and drawn from a sadistic culture. Honestly, the awakening process is a singularity that I can’t explain fully; neither can I tell people how to get there. Perhaps it’s a thing that happens to the lonesome drifters going through metaphysical anguish, or perhaps it’s a natural part of life that takes place when people are allowed to think and reflect intensely. All I know is I began to know intellectually and feel deeply that my general outlook on life was the creation of my conditioning in a benighted culture, and that I was as a blind man being led by other blind men.

Naturally, then, I began to question myself. The questions started off small and primarily revolved around her. “What did I see in her?” was the first. “Did she care about me as much as I cared about her?” came next. And “what would I have done differently if I weren’t so stupid and childish at the time?” came after. Examinations of this sort marauded around in my mental labyrinth for months. Then the questions got a bit more universal: “what does it mean to love? Was it better to have loved and lost than to have never have loved at all?” Those nights that used to feel so lonely began to be stirring. The questioning process gave life a new dimension – a deeper one. All sorts of things flashed across my cerebral canvas. There were so many questions, so many ways of twisting them and so many ways of working out their answers. The theory of relativity, the theory of gravity, theories of cosmic expansion, ideas about the survival of the fittest, and notions of soul of humans under an invisible leviathan (modern welfare state) were all made to apply to romantic life( and my entire continuum of experience in general.)

Of course, these things have nothing to do with love. Nevertheless, they were sweet to meditate on. I was still rocked with confusion, but my chaos was turning into the creative kind – the kind that gave birth to dancing stars. I had come to understand that “there are more things in Heaven and Earth than were dreamt of in my philosophy.” Of course, realizing this made me categorically petrified and stressed, but along with the apprehension came a chance to inquire into nature of existence and to reinvent myself through all sorts of strange and, perhaps, sacrilegious means – it was an opportunity to“find my faith living in sin.” To that end, I read widely and listen assiduously, soaking up all the wisdom I could. Then working with the novel truths I discovered, I started to reconstruct myself from the wreckage of my past, one fragmented piece at a time. It was a lonely excursion, and sometimes I was afraid of the things I found. As with all humans, a monster lived within the shadows of my psyche and because thorough self-examination shines a light on it, I was made to see it and I was a bit frightened by what I saw.

Overtime, however, I learnt how to deal with this darker and more irrational part of myself; I made friends with it (I won’t try to explain how I did. Any attempt to do so would be a long and winding digression). With this acceptance and, thus, integration of my “darkness” into my personality, came a more acute sense of humor, a more lively conscience, and increased objectivity.

Under my novel “enlightenment,” I set out to understand the very mechanism that had put me on my path – romantic love (and marriage by extension). Examining this sort of love closely, I saw that in our culture (and most other cultures) it was a very peculiar and paradoxical social construct. For in a romantic relationship, you’re expected to foster the freedom of someone who can make you jealous. And no matter how hard you try in your love life, you’ll never escape this contradiction. When conceived intellectually, it seems like it would be an easy task, but as most of us suspect and only a few of us are fully aware, we are more led by emotions than reason. As the Danish Philosopher, Søren Kierkegaard, puts it, “the heart has reason which reason knows not of.”

Furthermore, a romantic relationship is scarily fickle. Of this we are all knowledgeable. It may fulfill one of our deepest yearnings – the wish to be one with something. But at the same time, there’s no guarantee that a relationship will work. More disheartening still, is the fact that the object of our lovemust leave us (or we them), either at death or in life; the game of romantic love is one which we are all bound to lose. It is reasonable, then, to ask “why play the game, why start something thatmust fail?” I think the answer lies in watching a candle burn.

With a little activity of the mind, we can imagine that lit candles are aware of the short supply of their wax. They don’t seem to be paralyzed by it, though; they always seem to burn to their potential’s brim and their only concern seems to be with the art of fueling fire – an art that more resembles a waltz than a painting. The aim of a painting is to capture a moment and weave it into the visual tapestry of time for as long as corruption, whether natural or man-made, will allow. But a waltz is the moment, and when the waltz stops that moment is gone forever. Hence, a painting edifies the future using the present, while a waltz crowns only the present.  That’s probably why it always seems as if flames are gracefully dancing in a continual now, moving in such a way as to honor the present.

So must our romantic relationships and marriages be a dance where both lovers strive to be fully present, paying attention to each step as if they were perpetually getting re-married. How charming is a love like that!

With this attitude towards the romantic contract, lovers will bond out of freedom. They’ll be there (in the relationship) purely because they love “dancing” with each other. No need to gratify society, parents, and peers will be responsible for their bond – they’ll not be together because of the will of any external establishment. Their love is an existential commitment based on a spontaneous reaction to life. As such, they’ll give of themselves more freely, and anything they demand of each other will only go towards the natural development of the “dance.”  Yes, there will be disagreements, and tempers might get lost a few times because any two people will have divergent views and needs, but there will be a certain beauty and challenging contentment even in the most hostile times. And I suspect too, that in such a relationship, conflicts will be resolved very hastily because “dancers” are usually more focused on finding solutions rather than satisfying their own unnecessary hubris.

However, a relationship such as this can only be reveled in by people who have turned their “loneliness into being alone.” By this, I mean that they’ve come to realize that they’re a world unto themselves – a cosmos to be explored unreservedly. Furthermore, they would have also come to realize that every other human being is a consummate mystery that they’ll never figure out, even the ones closest to them are beyond psychological measure. And that responsible freedom is the hallmark of a life well lived, as such, they should grant it to the ones they love and strive for it themselves. Thus, they’ll have the type of love which says “I need you because I love you,” and not “I love you because I need you.” The former is the rarely seen mature love, while the latter is the immature kind often seen in movies and heard about in silly pop songs.

It is easy to see, then, that in a mature, loving, romantic relationship, the conditions of felicity are the parameters which allow a couple to commit themselves to living as sexual partners devoted to well-being and exploration of each other. Marriage is crowning state of such a way of life. Being married is the couple’s “living out of that constitutive act of commitment in countless further acts, and in each spouse’s disposition or readiness both to do such acts of carrying out their commitment, and to abstain from choices inconsistent with it, until they are parted by death (or divorce, but preferably death).”

Jealousy and a wish to control the people closest to us will always be there, these are fixed in our nature. Thankfully, though, they can be a diluted with a well-developed conscience.

I’ll stop here for purposes of brevity and laziness. Curt, I know. But I believe I’ve said all that my heart found exigent…

For the one I met too soon.

 

 

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The Forging of Greatness

In the depths of the valley of Caprice, about 75 miles north of the Adriatic Sea, a great contest underwent. A war raged between the two great cities of Pella and Vanicia, a battle of beasts.  And who can tame the will to power of such an animal? Man has known great gains in their infant history, but the human condition is as malleable as the tungsten metal in their weaponry.  Egos clash their phallic swords while the decision makers watch from their thrones afar and such is the nature of the wild. Into the jungle we are thrust and find a woman. A woman whose thoughts and skin tone often fell into the same hue. Mme Bonéma lived as a beautiful, dark silk cloak woven by the fabric of strife.  Providence had it so that she grew into an old age, for longevity was a blessing not promised in those days in as much as simplicity isn’t promised in ours.

Madame Bonéma, in her quiet, contemplated a creature’s obscurity, who desired to kill over the acquisition of territory.  She would think, “Why do the birds declare the sky free and the fish share the sea, when man will destroy what was given as a gift.” She would then add a deep sigh only to be received by the ears of seclusion. She kept her doors open mostly because she believed that humans should aspire to connect instead of perspiring to conceal. She did not however, show any hospitality to idleness and despair, two unwelcome guests.  She was a consistent woman who refused to indulge compromise.  She lived her life in concordance with an adage she came across in a book, “We never find purpose for our hands, until our hands find purpose.”

Bonéma ‘s  gift was a mastery of molding metal. Before the war came, she spent her time forging immaculate works of art such a figurines and kitchen utensils. She found great peace and purpose in her work because a blacksmith’s task carries an attractive irony. There is a component of detail oriented craftsmanship, coupled with the raw strength of manipulating strong metal. It is a manifestation of the lion and the lamb living in faithful harmony. She would often give away many of her most time consuming pieces, confessing her reward was in the process and that appreciation was the most valuable form of barter. The elite scoffed at her generosity, to which she would respond with a soft smile and a thought that usually resembled something like, “How weak is he who falls prey gold, than he who gives way to gratitude.” Mme Bonéma was a model of greatness, personifying everything we once knew to be a beautiful person.

The war began transforming both the Pellan and Vanician people from people of innocent magic to people of aggression and unrest. The free thinkers of those respective societies were forced to conform under duress. The war stole their innocence and few managed to maintain their substance. Pella was located by the sea, while Vanicia was situated on top of a hill. Consequently, the Vanicians were athletically superior and more dominant in stature. Living on top of a hill provided another military advantage of a wider range of sight. What the Pellans lacked in sight however, they gained in foresight and what they lacked in outward strength they recovered inwardly.

When threat of war was made common knowledge, Mme Bonéma went straight to work without a moment’s hesitation. She took to crafting the perfect weapon, a weapon that would boast sharpness, durability, and swiftness, traits of a conqueror. 3 days and nights she toiled barely stopping for a moment’s rest, protesting all the captivities of the flesh. Finally arriving at what she believed to be a sword of near perfection, she wrapped it up and set off for the battle camp.

Before she even began crafting the sword, she bore in mind who she deemed worthy of such an appendage. His name was Alexander.  They had met through a mutual friend years prior and would privately take to each other’s company when they felt burdened, not nearly as often as either of them liked.  Alexander was a man equally equipped with wisdom and mastery. He was a Pellan general in the army with a resounding fierceness and resolve. He was young but quickly gaining notoriety amongst the ranks of soldiers for his sword yielding skills.

Mme Bonéma arrived at Alexander’s tent mid afternoon carrying the new-born whose craftsmanship and beauty adorned in the sunlight. Weary from the journey, she elected to remain there with Alexander for the duration of the afternoon. Aware of the dangers of Mme Bonéma’s journey back, Alexander insisted she spend the evening.True intent masked by this act of selflessness, he just wanted to talk to her, in hopes of regaining his waning belief in humanity. They sat down to a cup of tea by candle light, setting a mood that birthed reflection. Bonéma broke the silence first with a question, “What have you of war Alexander?”  Well aware of the source of her inquisition, Alexander answered,

“I don’t give much way to enigma outside of evening tea time. I leave the things that are beyond us, to that which is beyond us. I’ve found no sense to war, but neither to love nor life, but still I partake. I don’t believe those rooms are open to us, nor should they be. I won’t walk in the light fretting over what lies beyond in the darkness. What I do believe, MmeBonéma, is that whatever we are given to do with our hands, we do with our whole being and to the best of our ability. “

He then picked up the sword and inspected it with awe, noting its magnificence as a father does his child. “Such a truth you are no stranger to apparently.”MmeBonéma took a sip of her tea to mask the sun creeping from her mouth across her darkened face. From henceforth they sat in silence until time to retire to their respective chambers.

The next morning Alexander awoke and glanced at the sword while he basked in the renewed confidence the weapon brought. It was something acutely profound and yet still maintained an air of permanence. He passed by the room Mme Bonéma slept in the night before, which was now empty, quietly thanking her for the feeling of purpose she stained into his world when she visited. He slowly placed his armor on and stepped out into the unfamiliar world he now called home, the war.

3 weeks later the fight had come to an end and despite all prediction or logic the Pellans were found victorious. When the ancients tell tales of their memories, none neglect to mention the fight of Alexander after that day. They would light up while retelling how he moved as an inspired man yielding a sword of magic, while hundreds of Vanacians fell slain. Alexander ventured forth to earn the accolade of greatness, creating one of the greatest empires the world has ever known, never ever tasting the bitterness of defeat. He would say with great pride, “Before the empire is the fight, and before the fight is the warrior, but before the warrior comes his weapon, and before the weapon comes the blacksmith.”

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