Letters

my dearest friend,

that all lives are short, and that we are insignificantly in love with someone at some point, marked the interval between our blessings and struggles.

c
2020.3.5

my dearest friend,

see, it’s effortless for us to mimic an established language and to reproduce existing sets of vocabs, tones, grammars, etc; the tricky part is to detach from these things and to speak subversively; to create new contexts by breaking free from the rules of other narratives, even great, fascinating ones; to rebel against your presumable core and to keep writing until you have nothing else to confess or to defend; to remind me of your insignificant beings; or to live, if necessary; poems are disposable; what are us; and what makes our minds; words; feces; are our lives nothing but a sneezing impulse that takes too long to hold our breaths; regardless, be fierce and generous; I’ve been waiting.

c
2021.7.15