Letters

He’s struggling to find time to write to her. His days, which he never found easy were now full of struggles — to think of her (took time), to shape his thoughts into a letter (took even more), to write it in a proper language (what a waste of time). He hates it, and he resists it. He takes a pause. He doesn’t write for three days, greedily making time for his needs, his songs, his silence, his sitting on the chair, watching videos, doing nothing, shaping his own life. But it doesn’t feel like His anymore. And this burden feeling breaks through everything he is used to. The lines, ideas, worries, and shame. He knows she is waiting. No, she isn’t! Why should she? Because she said so. Why should he believe? He confronts for another half of a day, then he sits and writes.

He used to write those nice 4 pm letters, short, and light, and funny. Not any more. No matter what time he starts, he sends it after 9 pm. First, he writes how beautiful she is, how smart, and young. Then, suggest some new old music she would appreciate. And tell his stories. She asked for them from the first day they met. She loves stories. But it hurts. To remember, and even harder to display. There’s nothing to be proud of. Why she needs it? He’s not an object of study! He’s angry again. Why, why, why!? He still cannot understand her interest in him. He removes a good half of the text and writes some lighthearted music quotes instead.

Ti scrivo lettere sbagliate,
Quelle vere non toccano la carta.
Marina Tsvetaeva

The quotes of her favorite poet stuck tight in his head. “Russian, with all the causes and consequences of this great and truly dramatic heritage,” she wrote. How is his poor old Italian heart supposed to bear this?

October 11, 2020
Cuore a Firenze