Dear Muse,
Losing something you have written is almost as painful as losing a possession or a person, I think. Only, it is not a generic thing that can be bought again and it cannot be reclaimed from an insurer. And it isn't someone who you can find again or visit when you miss them. It is a piece of your soul, laid on a page and made tangible. To lose this moment that has been captured by ink and blue-lined paper hurts more than any heartbreak. It is the only pain I feel more than my acknowledgement of death. Because in a way, it is a death. The part of you who wrote aforementioned words is gone forever.
Once upon a time, I had pages and pages of a story that was only beginning to write itself. I was only beginning to know myself. Written over 3 years and each word a burden that needed to be laid down, it was bound in a red folder with a blue ribbon around it. Red, black and blue were the inks that splashed my feelings into reality. There was a girl, lost and in search of purpose and identity. There were others of course but now when it is late and the night is silent, I long to hear from her again. By pouring so much into it, at 2am when sleep would not come and the words would not stop, the ache lingered for so long when it was lost. Misplaced or thrown away by someone who probably thought it was useless during a spring clean. I would search every cupboard and every page, even two years later when we were moving- I still searched. Even now I sigh at the memory.
But she has gone now and I forget the parts of her story that were once so vivid. I wish you could know her too.
I used to keep journals. But that was a mistake. Of course it was a mistake to pour every simple, naive thought into a book where the only intrigue and scandal is not your own but rather the idea of what could be or the lives of those around you. There is no filter. And when it is read and taken for more than it was, your heart can only weep while you throw them away. The bitter regret of trusting yourself to reveal to much teaches you to be less vulnerable.Perhaps it is better now, when every thought may be forgotten and when memories fade away to make room for new ones. It is better now, that I have learned to internalise each problem. Who needs a retrospective opinion anyway?
I will never meet that girl I was again, even if I chose to. You would laugh, at my exaggeration and musings about the people around me.
I was full of ideas, when life had not yet made a cynic of me. My writing was my secret project and I was too shy to let anyone examine the flesh and bones of my soul. So I tore up my poetry and wished it away. The few that remained were cryptic and held very little weight. Pages and pages that drew a map of me were discarded into a tall green bin. The intensity of my confessions were too stark and obvious, there were no secrets that were not in plain sight in my stanzas. My sentiments seemed more heavy than I wished to be known. Each one was a record of my doubts, fears, failings and sadness.
Such deep sadness that I would hate to revisit ever again. If my heart held on to these for too long, the veins would become lined with lead and soot that burned in a time of angst. What would be left? A shell I think, who had to let go before it was consumed by all this reflection.
And when I fell in love with you, I wrote a poem or a letter every other day. I wanted you to know that one secret. And when you told me you felt the same way, I wrote two a day to try to contain myself.But before the urge to burn it up and hide behind my wall arrived, I bound it in ribbons and watercolour and left it for you. It is so cheerful and full of my smiles and laughter. I'm glad I gave it to you for a while. Now you will know how deeply those pages decorated with flowers and ink, are tied to my heartstrings.
You were given those pages so one day, I am able to see who I was before "me" became "we".
To lose something you have written is akin to pretending it never happened. Be it your fault, or an accident, the pain stays. You crush and sweep away the fallen leaves in Autumn, leaves that unfurled in a time in your life when it was Spring. And now, while it is Summer, I will endevour to write to you and about you so that I remember what the blossoms smelled like when it is Winter again.
Yours faithfully,
Your semi-retired poet
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