Tamara Stamenkovic
Prose,  Written literature | Author's writings

The letter

Most of all, I believe in letters that have never been sent, torn, collected remnants of thoughts in the most sincere moments, transferred to paper. They are so pure that their vulnerability is too much to bear. The gentle movement of the mind without a clear direction to one sheet of paper, the dedication of the hands to write every thought in the form of a quick letter is so essential, the emotions they reflect are so raw. So I’m sure he will not understand what I have to say. And maybe he will, that’s the problem. The provocative need to express myself is often too great to diminish over time. It must explode. And I think too much and too long until the papers fill up and my head stays empty. It’s empty until the next time it sends me into new, unknown corners of my terrifying mind to discover another deeper, overwhelming reason to surrender completely. It’s better on this unsent letter than in front of his invasive eyes. The most intimate paper is one that I will write, and he will never read it. While my mind is on fire with his heart, and while everything in me screams to avoid his curves, where his angles of thought are balanced, he will be utterly ignorant of what I keep in myself as I transfer it to paper. I like it like that. When he pulls behind my eyes, to escape my truth when he gives me headaches in the evening. But he is also what fills the space when I forget something. He doesn’t know that so he can’t use it against me, or take me and destroy it all, because the only evidence I burned, shattered or thrown away through a window, or sunk in a lake, hidden, where he will never think to search. Words, emotions, and thoughts stuck on my lips. They want to tell everything, but I choose to keep them to myself. Some things are so dangerous to let go. Some things are too significant and worthy to trust another person to interpret them. So I write and seal everything. A letter that doesn’t have an address. And I’m not trying to make it scent nice, or use any secret signature move because he will never have the opportunity to smell it or open it, read or analyze it, understand it or respond to it. I don’t have to anticipate his reaction, nor do I care what he thinks of it because it’s mine. Just mine. The written fact that we fit together as sphinxes and puzzles, or that sometimes he seems to ruin every chance I will ever have to feel something like this, for anyone else. We’re not a prophecy, but only a description of two failures in love. Or maybe I don’t want to be in love with him at all. I wrote everything down, and what’s not written will yet happen. Nor do I want him to find out about it. It will be worse if he can understand the need to express and the need to keep everything to myself while looking into my eyes and breaking the glass in them. As he turns his head in the denial that he loves me, he burns and freezes. I cool and melt in the fire that he started. That’s why I choose to keep everything on paper, which never had value until now. Priceless to me, and me, only. I don’t want him to touch what belongs only to me. It was a long time ago when I was banging on the door until he listened to me. I just had an unbearable desire for him to listen to me. Really. And now, it just takes a little memory of what killed me to kill emotions and revive them with the movement of a pen. Just like that, only then. I was petrified. I strongly believe in the ability to hide how I feel, to decide how prepared I am to be vulnerable. Despite being exhausted by the weakness that makes me such a strong fortress, I believe in the importance of reducing my dramatic emotions in a moment through a powerful filter, avoiding their effects on both of us, until I find new ways to acknowledge the same things. Everything is tied to us, in separate envelopes without any specific markings, and sealed in a cedar box that I plan to bury at the earliest convenience.

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