To:

Hello my friend. I’m sorry I haven’t spoken through you in a while. I’m sure you hear that all the time, from others besides me. You are but a vessel; the actual outpouring is universal and comes in every language. It is print. It can describe a moment to its fullest without being the actual moment, which alone stands complete. It can in words convey snapshots or hours, days, lifetimes. With so many users having access to this outlet, this transparent passage, everything I may draw from you seems inevitable that it has been drawn out before in some arrangement. What will I do with what you show me? What if I am the only one ever to ingest your words, your described moments? They will make me who I present to the world, influence who I am, for only myself. They can convince me of the things that only I know, if only I see what is drawn from you. None the less, pulling the same moment from you but with words rearranged seems redundant, common. It may still be worthwhile; if I show another it may inspire emotion otherwise unfelt. But even emotions have their ugly, though perhaps the most negative emotion can carry substance and emit a hint of purpose worth recognizing. Pulling from my mind for even the slightest (amount of time? what is time but moments passing, and what moment shows a beginning and an end? Time moment period space of rest of breath...that label is for another time-there’s that word again...) makes my head spin, like I have to hold on or else risk spinning out into the whirling pool of sparkled images materializing in print. “Pull them all!” says my being. “Pull them all and show everyone!” Therein lay the fear, the burden, the weight of stone that tugs at the effort and tickles the inaction to rear its ridiculously squandering nature. If I show no one, then by creating and destroying doesn’t the act render itself squandering? And so my head fills; and my head controls my hands and my legs, and does not control itself.