Letter (3)
In the silence of black and white, we are all colors.
I wrote that yesterday on a napkin in the diner. I think I’m getting better at this whole writing thing.
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I like things with meaning and truth. Those are just about the only things I still like.
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I’m still in Michigan, and the sky is still snowing, and snow is still piling along the roadsides and parking lots and everywhere else snow usually piles. Everything is white and seamless. Last letter I told you I was going south, but I’m not. I’ll head west through the snow. I’m starting to like the stuff—snow.
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I’m going to tell you a story and maybe you won’t like it. It’s about me and this girl I met at the diner. She was just drifting through, like me, but she’s drifting faster than I am. I think she has somewhere to be. I don’t. Maybe you’re thinking, wait, why is he telling me about a random encounter with a random girl.
Because nothing is random and everything has at least some applicable meaning to your own life.
It’s how you use the events around you to shape yourself.
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She sat down next to me at the counter. I was the only customer before her. When she entered there was two.
She was cute, really pretty, in a different way than you. Not beautiful, and she was short, with short blond hair cut to uneven edges, freckles on her face and bright blue eyes. In every way different from you, so she didn’t remind me of you, which was good. I hate to be reminded of you, and that’s not an insult or anything like that. It’s just unhealthy, you know, being reminded of someone so far away, someone who speaks only with letters, and even those letters I fled from, so you’re silent now, a memory, a slew of memories, all bliss and pain and nothing in between.
We got talking, her and I, and we talked for hours, until the diner was about to toss us out for the night.
She was driving on, she said, but maybe she’d get a room for the night. She asked if I was staying nearby, if I had a room, if I had anywhere to go that night, or the next day, or ever. You didn’t have to be perceptive or intelligent to understand. It’s like when we first saw each other, and first spoke, and how painfully obvious it was. It was like that, but nowhere near as surreal. It didn’t have the magic, and without magic you just have life, and life is never good enough.
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And so I said I was traveling the other direction, tonight in fact. Now. And she was disappointed. That was clear. And I wasn’t sure I made the right decision. I’m still not sure. We parted ways, and I knew there could have been something there, between us, but it wouldn’t be enough.
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I’m not blaming myself, and I’m certainly not blaming you. And I didn’t tell you this story for you to remember what we had and how rare it is, or to convince you. I’m done with that.
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I just write letters now.
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It’s everyone’s flaw. That’s all I wanted to make clear. Our inability to change. Humans, people, really aren’t good at adapting. We think we are, but we’re not. Things don’t change; they just stay the same, and we perceive everything, including ourselves, differently. We fool ourselves. We lie to ourselves. We’re foolish liars.
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Rereading this letter, I realize it’s awfully depressing and I should probably just toss it out, but before starting the very first letter I promised myself I would write what I think and not erase anything. It’s purer that way. Realer. Easier, in a way.
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And now I’m back in the hotel room and I’m almost ready to move on. I’ll be in Wisconsin soon, in a few days. I don’t know what’s there for me. I’ve never been in Wisconsin, but I’ve never been in Michigan until now either. The world is big, I’m discovering. There’s a lot to it, and a lot of people you’ll never know but wish you knew.
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