I’m writing to you. Today—there, in the world of your photographs—I finally realised that speaking is not enough for me. I want to write as well, though even that may not be enough. You spoke so sincerely, your head slightly bowed… a little shyly. For all those beautiful moments, I say thank you, though even saying that feels too little. Far too little.
Lost in the sunlight, on the yellow sand of a strange city, between people both unreal and, paradoxically, the most real of all—we spoke. But what was it we said there? It makes me sad that the dream of dance sometimes takes on different dimensions. Thoughts appear before which one is so childishly defenceless—there are no arguments against the Law of the World or the Law of Statistics.
And yet—I don’t trust answers very much. I’ve begun to suspect that the moment we explain everything, we stop listening. That what people call wisdom is often just the comfort of having a conclusion. Don’t we feel it around us: a readiness to judge instead of understand, to answer instead of ask. Something fragile disappears—what does not claim to know, but still wants to look more closely. Perhaps that is why I believe so stubbornly in dance, in writing, in whatever refuses to close the question. And so, I’m glad that we see the same things, and see them equally, despite the cheerful sun.
That’s why I say—it’s time to tilt one’s head mischievously, cling to the ceiling with all four paws, and with gleaming green eyes shout, “So what of it?”—then burst into a thousand white flowers and fall straight onto the lawn that lies on the floor.
I’m so glad I was able to hear those things: to ask for them to be reconsidered, for they are matters that must not be ignored. And if the following cruel statement is true—that some of the most beautiful flowers must be plucked and killed so they can remain forever as beautiful as they are now, preserved for eternity—then what? I will never believe that such a truth could apply to this dance.
But blood and signatures… Blood fades so quickly. And day after day, am I not placing a truer signature—a signature of honest openness? A signature simple and sure—made surer, better, because it requires being redrawn, thickened, renewed over time… sustained by effort that will keep it alive. Such a signature, such a guarantee, will not vanish or grow old, even if much time passes and our worlds collapse or change—if we continue tracing it, it will (perhaps forever?!?) remain a guarantee stronger even than a heart preserved in another’s refrigerator.
Will such a signature be enough?
She knows the paths of reason and the quiet roads, the roads of patience and of strength. That knowledge allows her to act according to her delicate sense of dignity—with all the consequences and conclusions that come with it.
Why do I want to watch her dance more often? Well—because isn’t she an intelligent, thoughtful creature? She reads—and understands what she reads—without pretence. Likewise with knowledge: she knows more than others, yet she doesn’t care to make others painfully aware of it.
I want to dance with her because she manages paradoxes and knows how to create them herself. Words, to her, are words—not an absolute reality. In her eyes, one can read curiosity, but also something else… something terrifying—because (perhaps it’s a foolish comparison, but I can’t think of a better one to express that ineffable something) it resembles the weary wisdom of beings who have lived very long—perhaps even immortal beings, and therefore so sure of themselves.
Her smile speaks of something incredibly good deep within, yet it also foreshadows danger. I dance with her because she speaks sincerely, listens astonishingly, and wants to know. I dance with her because, although she almost doesn’t care, she moves so gracefully through a reality where no one truly can be indifferent. I dance with her because, even though she says everything—and says it so honestly—she remains a mystery, impossible ever to fully understand; you can never quite predict her next move. She’s capable of almost anything, and yet none of it is ever in bad taste—because she has a sense, almost an instinct, for what is right and beautiful.
These are not empty compliments—I couldn’t forgive myself such things. There’s something behind each of them. Perhaps one day she’ll ask me about them, and then I’ll tell her. Perhaps one day all these abstract words will take real shape… who knows?
When you speak, the whole world shuts off—and it shuts off more completely than with any book or computer. Please, tell me everything that’s new.
With great curiosity, Someone different— And yet the same.
you see it is morning and yet the walls are silent only a sheet of shapeless hope separates us the one we wrap ourselves in out of fear of the pain of waking too early
it is so early you are there, and I am on the other side
sometimes it only seems to us that we understand more than our poems— which are not at all enough for living
