I wrote you a letter

little firecrackers will pile up in your head and in your chest if you lack the time and space to quietly unwind and study the kinks and brush out the knots. listen: it is imperative to throw the firecrackers one by one, by yourself sometimes. enjoy the pops and hisses and sparks. if this is not done with due diligence, a pile of firecrackers will grow, and a pile of firecrackers is dangerous. tiny bursts amass. a big boom you can’t control set off by any friction or weight, tiredness or thirst.
this morning you needed to be alone. you had become a pile of firecrackers.
picture it: a few days in a far away place delighting in yourself, in time, in diligently throwing individual firecrackers one by one, until monday came around and the world crowded again.
there was one moment when you were on your own: you sat in a cathedral and heard voices singing. you cried at the way the sound decayed and reverberated through the space and through you. your mother used to cry every sunday, usually during the hymns, and that welling up of feeling in response to sound is so familiar. even now, when the religious connotation isn’t. still discombobulating. you shrunk. some strangers teasing, a friend’s disinterest, your mother insisting it was god tugging on your heart— it made you alone, the lonely kind.
i missed you. you and your yearning for the way a spirit moves atforwith sound.
by the time it was this morning, you were a gaping want. in times of paucity, firecrackers litter the floor. steps explode. not lack of love or desire, but lack. deficient and spent.
the solution: sit alone and smile at the tiny cracksplash of each one. listening and walks help. it’s good to walk, and walk and walk, because your legs will fall asleep if you sit and think too long. that makes it harder to stand.



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