I know exactly what I want to tell you but I don’t know how to start.
The start is always the toughest part. I know I don’t want to talk to you about my (our) sleek, transparent, youthful mistakes. They weren’t many but they were heavy, and just as many as they should have been. We stood ruthless against anyone who would stain ourselves, even if it were us doing the deed.
I know how you were trying to wipe out the ugly words from the old times that weighted down my veins. I remember your delicate white hand brushing them off wistfully, as though any quantity of future was enough to squiggle the past. And the more you tried, the more you pressed deeper, but we were young and we thought that the worse had already passed.
You know, the start was almost given away to us but the in between will last forever, even if it is in words at the end of a thread whose edge we have almost forgotten. What we have left is the findings, the residue, the photograph of a time that will always be beautiful and always irrevocable and now inherently without meaning. Something like a memory of a voyage to some land that no longer exists.
I know we each embarked on many, or long, voyages since. I know we saw things that hadn’t existed yet where we went, perhaps even never existed – now such truths are painless. We will never learn how many of those were necessary in the end and we will never have to learn it either. We never liked to recall why we were lucky, because, I am telling you, the start was given away to us.
I know that this could be a letter someone leaves on a tomb. And I know that if there was death, it was at least for once brave. The kind that is reciprocal, where the road parts for both, together. The most beautiful oxymoron at the end of the end.
And I don’t like to remember, I promise you this, I almost don’t know how to do it. Your fingers will always be over the words that weren’t squiggled but just like them, they are simply yet another old expired ticket.
I know so much but I am not sure if I want you not to have forgotten it. At the end of the day, we may still be young when we think that the best has already passed. And the voyages we made apart, weren’t they beautiful too? And, honestly, I know that there are still starts that are given away and I know well other in betweens that have nothing to envy from the old ones – because, because we may still have some luck left.
I know exactly what I want to tell you; I want to tell you that despite all this, no one knew how to die like you did. No ending, never, nowhere, in no voyage was more worthy of the road, a more honorable atonement to the free start that we were given. And then you silently took it back like you denied it the dignity; but you know, all great things deserve great endings. And, normally, I would boldly stop you, but I don’t know how to start any more.
P.S. I am no good with this memory lane thing, I really should get rid of dusty old notebooks.