What if truth were a woman--what then?Nietzsche
You will never know that you saved me.
I was about to leave when you arrived. The story of my life. The trouble with hello is goodbye.
And, oh, how I wanted to stay. I asked the God if it were proper--if it were not too rash or too childish if I stay. I do not do such things, you see; I am as shy as a rose that does not want to be seen smiling. But too long have I waited, too long. And caution neither makes a hero nor a lover.
I admit: I stayed around because of you. I do not wish to say that I followed you as you gracefully walked past every shelf or turned corners like an angel--did you touch the ground? I cannot remember.
A vision--an eclipse of my heart. I stayed because my absent heart sought your silent presence. My despair yearned for the possibility of hope that you bring.
'Tis no matter to explain or to apologize. Some events change us not because they fall into place but because they displace everything: a mind set aside, an overwhelmed heart, a life revived.
I know that I could have been, um, more creative when I first spoke and bridged our silence. But such first words will always have to be humorous because they are always tentative and a gamble. I remember how you thought it unusual to be talked to about biographies midday in an empty bookstore amid the absurd Christmas carols that played.
Forgive me: a desperate man does desperate things. It was the only way for me to hear your voice.
And I can speak forever about your voice--how it was both humble yet strong, both soft yet sure, a silent power, a voice like no other. I heard your voice and I did not need to hear any more: I found out who you are.
For your voice spoke of a wisdom that can only be attained after much difficulty and pain. Your voice signaled a beloved silence that you have grown to nurture, to master and to enjoy. No longer do I hear silent hearts speak: but you, you spoke volumes with your tenderness, with your soothing calm.
Do I just imagine to hear such things? I hope not. But it was the deafening despair in my heart which made it possible for me to hear your peace. That's it: you spoke words of peace.
I never got to show you what was inside the plastic bag I towed in hand as I made those funny gestures trying to appear confident before your bedazzling beauty. It was a book by Sylvia Plath.
It was the book she left on her desk before she trapped herself in the kitchen, opened the gas valves, and killed herself. It was Ariel--a book of poems written in blood and composed under the black sun of despair. My plan was to read it not to languish further in my emptiness but to learn how to turn the daggers of the mind away from myself and put them unto a page, to deliver myself from the nameless pain and give it a name, to see in my departed sister my face--so i may discern it.
In a word, I sought hope in the poetry of a suicide. And that was when you came.
You--you were the opposite of suicide.
It is no longer important that you know how my heart leaped from the grave or how blood once again ran through my veins when I saw you, when I heard you. It is no longer the matter that you forget my name or if I never get to see you again.
But do remember this: that you saved me, I will remember you.