I was mucking around my Evernote archive, sifting through fragments and unclassified notes, when I found the draft of a letter I wrote on my birthday last year but probably never sent? I write so much and often, I forget what I’ve put down or communicated. In any case, it seems like a letter to myself now, but I have no time to write a reply–as Martha Baillie wrote in The Incident Report (2009), “There are moments when time dilates like the pupil of an eye, to let everything in.” My eyes are defo dilat(ed) these days, as I’m usually caffeinated, puyat, and pagod, hahaha.
Dear [name redacted],
All I want today is to drink up–something sweet, intoxicating, and ice-cold–while breathing in highland air and scanning the sky with someone whose company I enjoy. Alas, none of these are forthcoming. Tonight I have a class, and by the time it ends, it will be too late to hotfoot it out of the city and wake up to pray at dawn atop a mountain or beside the sea.
Today I turn [age redacted]. It seems that no longer can I claim to be young, or use youth as an excuse for bad decisions, pigheadedness, sheer stupidity.
How the days pass. It feels like I last saw you a lifetime ago. How have you been? How have you changed? Have you changed? Can one go somewhere new, meet new characters, and stay the same?
Still the days pass. Bring me news of your here and now.