the letters have escaped.

http://escapingtexts.blogspot.com/

I meets H.

third and final letter.

this is the last letter I found unposted. When I read this letter, I knew, at that moment, that I was looking at his last letter. He had written so.

My silent confidant:

Every moment endures as long as the moment. The vault exists as long as something fills it. The abyss is where I have never been. Therefore I cannot speak of it as a moment. I meant to bring you along, to face this nameless dread and despair that afflict me nightly. But I do not know the way. And I cannot ask you so selfishly to travel with me.
I can call this place a purgatorical world which resembles earth. But resemblance is such a hyprocritical concept - trace after traces of being not quite the thing you classify. How can resemblance be even possible? But that is not the central question here. How do I conquer this whole trial of probation in which it resembles as much as it differs? Without knowing that it is a trial of probation, I neither inhabit the space nor live the time designated. It is the not here and the not there. Now, having conceived this space, I can only dread the relationship I have with the moment which is an experience in the form of a contradiction. I am shocked and I am not shocked. In such an instance (which will take some time to lessen its grip), I have at hand nothing ready to counter this occasion except that of differance. I immediately give up the equivocal significance of the moment in which I could conceive, and misread it as a signifance, and leave the field of relationship. That is to say, I leave. I disappear. What was significant is now deferred into an insignificance. And it is both.

But I am not dead.

I dare not suggest that I am dead. Every human being can only die twice. One figuratively. One literally. I had died that figurative death. And I have yet to die the literal one. Therefore, I have not died. But I will.
I cannot drag you, my reader, along, precisely because I am not yet dead. I can see well my intentions to, so pardon me if I made it seem so.

But now that I have finally identified a moment in time (which I am still in) as a trial of probation - a convenient category I can fully feel safe in - I am at once weakened and strengthened by my conception. The space and time immediately exist. I am living in, consciously this moment.

That way, I can make it the longest detour in my life and escape the scorns and trappings of life, and have the confidence to say that everything that is temptation, I am tempted within this moment and nothing else. It is mine alone to conquer. How sweet. And then I find myself in the abyss. All the sudden, I have done exactly what I set out to prevent. That is the problem with transcendence. How dreadful.

As we jest and frolic with the wind, we find exactly in the wind its danger, its judgment and most of all, its indeterminacy. It comes as it goes. Every movement made, in relation to my flesh and finitude, I do it with a certain determinacy. That is the trap. That is the trap that I have to escape. The irony is that I conceived it. That which gives me the embryoic joy is simultaneously my deadly bane.

How can one sleep with such despair?!

I cannot imagine Job in his waking, seven days with a confidant to listen to his silence. I am no Job. I cannot be eager to prove my right. Do not be eager to serve me. Do not be eager to judge me. But make haste that you do not come near me. until the moment ends. if it ends.

Do not fall in love.

Falling is the worst and best possible way to enter this moment.
But falling also has the potential to show us a different perspective. Perhaps, it is the differance I am looking for, and looking at right now.
It allows me to make haste and move to the next unknown stage. The leap will happen. After this trial of probation. When it happens, without turning it into another abyss of time and space, my letters shall cease. In fact, this is my last. Thank you my reader. For you have given me hope to believe that I can simultaneously be part of a moment and be out of it. Take what you can. Press my invisible hands and find me both there and not. At least we come to an understanding that no one is alone in the moment of life and death. We proceed and endure, despite the deaths and births of many. To live, is precisely the potential to be saved, as long as we hang on to our lives. Let us not recollect or repeat. Let us be really quiet and the wind will blow us to what we belong. The wind will carry the love messages to their intended destinations. One exercises faith not through what could be planned and understood. Faith is as mysterious as murdering your own son for God. You don't talk about it.

Yours,
Nameless Friend.

ONCE.

the gush came too late,
the flow should never reach,
the rush went with fate,
the glow I can't preach.
you're just like everyone.
you're just like anyone.
you want to run away.
you want to find a way.
a whirl came too early,
a twirl should always rock
a flip came too curtly
the last book was locked
a field has been abandoned
the seats are empty
the runaway train must stop
the seats are still empty
taking time to remember this
taking time to remember this
maybe we'll be there
where words cannot lift us to
air.
pure water.
you went too fast for me
I couldn't keep up with you
I'm still
too still and silent
I'm breaking for the pause I need that always come with long breathes and sentences
let me be still
let me be silent
I'm breaking
will you pick up the pieces some other time?
But,
I can't keep up with you.
I can't go back.
release this grip, whoever masters my heart
I'm in your debt,
when will I learn?
Let it go,
the river will flow,
upstream
back to where waters come from.
flashbacks.
wind.
who blows?
from whence
the day
longer than I expect
falling slowly,
the rainbow, a blur in the sky
I'm in love,
will be in love
once,
once,
once,
I'll listen to the melody on your behalf
the hills will listen with me
when you have closed your eyes
will you shine with me,
maybe not
somewhere, in parallel lines
we'll not meet
I'll be patient
you'll be patient
sorry, you have to see
the strength inside me,
burning... ... ... ...
this way, that way,
i may leave a trail,
which I will follow
return to the spot we met,
the blue covered clouds
my blanket while I slept.
the mornings will be cold.
but we will be warm
very warm
longer than it takes
but it's always longer than it takes
as we compose our tapestry of voices
a distance, far
looking for us,
our voices are looking for us.
taking time to look
taking time to look.
les gouttes de Dieu
we will be forgiven by water
you will always
be special
and then, you're gone,
you're gone.
each flying
to our seperate right and left
if you don't mind
i leave.
leave.
as well.
we were sentimentally happy.
sentimentally happy.
we'll learn
yes we'll learn
calm storms
breaking waters
skipped sceneries
the final train seemed to be taking a long time to pull over
but I appreciated that it lasted so long
so long
I'll pull myself away
this tie, I couldn't escape
mean
mean so much
cruel as it may sound
crashing and breaks screaming!
but we know what they mean.
the end.
there,
the two stories combined
death has been stolen,
lost virtual conversations and traces on the tracks
trains are such heart-wrenching constructs
I leave a tunnel
to find another tunnel
and another
and another
without reaching your heart
my own trembles.
perhaps you know
without my unpost letters
the motif of leaving
it's not because they can't reach
but there are always the mediating factors
I don't trust postmans.
the distance is always there.
how near we were,
but endless
and repetitive
our narratives.
once upon a time.
I once knew,
how to talk to you.
you knew,
how to talk to me.
Once.
not any more.
and somewhere
we lost the rhyme
but it's okay.
cool memories,
how we gaze at each other
scratching the surface of our monologues
how precious they still are,
Once,
we knew where to look for each other.
not any more.
taking time to forget
taking time to forget
but i regret to say
i won't
each day
taking time to regret
taking time to regret
I will
either way
say it now,
as if it is my violent last resistance
dragging
say
no matter
try hard to work this out
and still say
despite so many misunderstood and doubts
one thing will never change
no melodies here, and rhymes
this is no poetry
I will say it now -
I loved you.
I loved you.
I loved you.
I love you.
I died.



Once (OST).

this is the second letter that was not posted by the author. I have taken the liberty to post it here.

odd, that despite the death of the author, I should stumble upon these virtual letters written by him, such that I feel compelled to post them for the sake of clarity. I could not agree that these letters are eulogies and requiems. The sentimentality that is embedded in the texts is too deep to allow such a accidental end which would ruin that romantic notion I have of his texts if I had framed them as eulogies. Death, ultimately is white. Every black insistence on death is that resistance to death, and the desire to outlive a cruel and blessed destiny. But the blackness, which simultaneously gives life (of fantasies, imaginations, dreams, etc.) and destroys life (theories, conclusions, endings, etc.), also highlights the deep whiteness of death. White alone does not give itself up as a reading of death. Instead, it is the writing and reading of black on white that shows us how deadly white is. While it is often suggested and somehow true that black is the infinite unknown, instead, why can't the infinite white that screams at you be also a sinister thing? Black almost discourages writing (or possibility) unless you write with white. But white, is like a temptation that never tells you what you are tempted of specifically. Instead it is the temptation to create ex nihilo. Nothing is more fearsome and scary than writing. More often than not, we are tempted to create monsters. Hence, you tremble at the thought of facing nothingness straight in your face. It is so white that you cannot find depth to it, in contrast to black. Perhaps, it is this particular understanding of writing, that in my reading of his letters, I felt the odd sense to give it its natural end, that is the publication of death. While I understand the cruelty in that, it is a necessary evil. If we do not face death face-on, it is to mean that one has not truly lived. The despair that comes with creation ex nihilo is that sense in which you know you are creating on the backdrop of death - you know that at the moment of creation, the creation faces death. Nothing is as real as that. As I write, as it is being written, I am fully prepared to give the words up. I cannot remember them. To read what I have written, is to face it at a different sense of the text. It is simultaneously mine and not mine. This sensation can only be understood after one no longer finds it a despair to write. What keeps writing perpetually around is its capacity to die. Writing gives itself up to writing. Nothing is more violent and productive as writing. That is why the virgin birth of writing is almost impossible. Instead, one discovers our human-ness through writing, the allegory of our creation and destruction. To be born is to be dead. Hence, the born-again is always that which occurs as a post-event of our first death. Pure writing marks us as separate. To write is to shed blood. Having shed all the blood one can have, the only possibility is to die. But we must also understand, his letters were written not because he wanted death alone. The word is always that which produces as much as it destroys. What writing does, ultimately is to teach us about this basic principle of divisions, that each moment of emancipation of writing - as writing appears, we divide the word. We kill as much as we conceive. So when I read his letters, I cried without knowing if it was sadness or happiness that motivated the endless tears. One receives. Nothing can describe that gift. We just receive. Instead of classifying the gift, we are only aware that we are thrust into the whirlpool of the Word, and we chance upon something so wondrous, that only silence can be that moment. You don't talk about it. Birth and Death is not even what matters. Silence is a posteri. It is that which never performs. It is to be otherwise than being dead or alive. We escape from writing. Neither white nor black can touch us. Silence is the holy spirit.

this first letter was part of a collection of drafts found in this blogger account. The owner has since relinquished all control of the account to me. I will post them as and when I feel it deserves coverage, instead of just existing as drafts.