Dear,
I can’t say that this world, and this letter, would mean something, something more than love, but inevitably, my mind had conjured up such disturbed thoughts I think I need to share with you, and only you. I’d felt heartbreak, my dear, for quite some time; many times. Each time was different, although it was inevitably the same. As I wandered through my playlist, knowing that the words of my everyday music could not soothe me the same way, I looked up some of my favourite piano instrumentals. You knew the type. The one’s that I had indeed professed my heart to. I had no soul, was the term, quite apropos to the thought, more of memory. Befitting… I had none I believed, but I was sure I had a heart, kept somewhere within the depths of my mind’s perception. Of course those beats that plunged my chest into the physical realm are not what I had meant. I intended for something ineffably more. It was somewhere in my mind, and I knew my brain had something to do with these, these, pieces of shit that couldn’t have brought about more trouble than a generation of criminals. I’d changed my playlist, anyway, since then, and listening once more to those songs. It brings me back to the visage of elysian fields. It just brought about the trouble that is this letter. Fuck, my dear. Just, fuck.
My brain did its job and so rose the heart; emerging from the depths of my mind, like a snake to an Indian flute. It popped up, peeking. Peering if there was anything that sought to cause it harm, and when someone played my flute, it would always respond in the same way. The same fearless and trusting way, as if only the true piper could play that song. I knew how to play it, of course; I own the snake, the flute, the basket, and the tune, heck even the field that was my body. I still do. I could play it well, and bring about my heart to slither into my fingers, releasing the venom in the form of ink. Every time however, when another person played, my snake would be hacked at, not by the pied piper, but by the onlooker who saw my snake as a worldwide liability. The venom was the source of the illness, and most never understood that the venom itself was also the cure. Fucking idiots… It wasn’t that hard anyway, to think of. It wasn’t hard to imagine. That was, of course, in theory, but my statement was what I’d only wanted to believe. Every time, of course, it was not… No. It was never the onlooker but it was the piper who sliced. The piper did slice away at my venomous love snake, and each time, the piper was told to do so by an outward force. It was as if god himself, if ever he even existed, had commanded this horde of flute-players to my mental basket, and each time, the order was to trick it out and hack away. It was a demeaning thought, but as I’d said, my dear, I’d felt this heartbreak a million times, and a million times I shall feel it over, until that one piper defies god and takes pity on my battered snake. I can’t say god damn, I can only say, damn god.
Going back to the music, dear, those fragile pieces and tid-bits of music so inspiring and difficult, yet so lightly played by those who had composed it. Fucking esoteric bastards, they were. I recall those times, happier times, when such songs I could treat as water, simply changing figure with each new container. Each new instrument held the music as if water in a glass so translucent. It was guaranteed that it was trouble, but, again, a common misconception. It was not the music that was troubled, it was the listener. It was the listener, so affected by the sound, that it rallied emotions to its apparent worthy cause, thereby giving the physical body a little more than enough to work with. The body indefinitely gave consent. How couldn’t it? IT WAS the brain, after all, who assumed the transparency of the fluid from that translucent glass. I just couldn’t see that yet, dear. I was content with the joy I found in portraying the music in the way that pleased me. Words… Never-the-fucking-less, it was a happier time during the course of my life. It was all too pleasing, and shit, I’ll be damned if you, of all people, do not understand this. Meh. Those composers knew not what they were capable of, or they simply didn’t show they knew. Either way, their actions could have been summed up in one word; apathy. Selfish in their ways, they compose to their heart’s delight. They had venom, too, and they used it to their advantage. Only theirs, and theirs to own; those audible drugs were medicine for their souls. Those drugs were just street drugs to others, pleasingly poisonous. The paradox that is their venom existed for themselves, but shared with others wore a different effect. Would they care about those who heard the music? Would they care about the bums in the street? Would they care about the rich, living splendidly in lavish homes? Would they care about you? Me? US?!
That’s the point, isn’t it; us? You, me, and nothing else, my dear, would have mattered if not for the music. Oh, and forgive my streetwise grammar. I’m a dumb fuck who writes to you from a vacant space, lost without thought of time or purpose. Remember that time when we had gone to the docks and you dared me to jump into the waters because I described it so poetically? I fell into the waters not for you, but for me. Like a snake, and any other godforsaken animal on this planet, I need to feed. Forgive me for my latent confession, but I had fed off you. I’d fed off your life, being, purpose, soul (if you, or even all of us, had one), your eyes, lips, tongue, body, your joys, sorrows, horrors, and basically, your existence. It had given me my venom, protecting me from my own snakebite, embedded as a scar on my scales. I’m no zoologist, so whatever. I’m no swimmer, either, so you had to drag me out to shore. Me being the strong one, and you being, you, should have switched places, and like a comical movie from the 1930’s, we never switched places. I was mad, for a while, but how could I bite the hand that fed me? You played for me as I lay on your couch that night, wrapped in one of your towels. Your fingers, ever so wonderful, depressed themselves on the air holes, changing the note with such fervour, echoing your voice with each breath. It was the music. Nothing else would have fucking mattered if not for the damned music.
You played your song, and it called more than one snake. He came to the charm, like a spell-induced, drug abused, animal. Ravenous, poisoned, bewitched, he was slender yet firm. He had the fresh venom, but he was a python, more common worldwide, and I was, like those fucking composers, a bullshit king cobra. He was taller when he rose, but I could have easily outreached him if you had learned the right notes to my song. Almost undoubtedly the same with mine, your song was wonderful, and I’d rose, knowing that there was something familiar about the song, but it was not exact. It was not precise enough to bring about my whole. It was just that there was nothing perfect, especially if there was no god. If there was, your song would be his, resonating within each snake you meet, moreover with one as young and naive as he who had responded to your song’s call of duty. Just more commonly uncommon, though. Motherfucking-fuck, these-these, goddamned oxymorons. I’m intensely sorry, my dear. The music precedes my sense of decency and I didn’t intend to force you to turn an eye awry (though I can be sure you didn’t knowing you’d spent many a night with me like this).
Well, that’s what this damned letter is about, no? I’m sorry. My dear, I truly am. I’m just a snake, and well, there’s nothing else I can do about it. You did do something, however. You changed me more than you really do know, and I’m sorry that it was hard. I’m sorry that I took so long to contact you. I’m sorry that it took all these years. I’m sorry it felt like an eternity, waiting for something like the music, to force me to let you know that I am still alive. I’m sorry I made you suffer through the agony of the wait. I read the newspaper of our old place every day. I had a copy sent over to where I now stay, that I may read about the weddings, obituaries, and whatever information I could find on you. I called our shared friend every month, still do, actually. Tells me you’ve stopped playing the flute, and I ponder on asking why, hoping for a reply that might never come, even if I’d wanted it to. I won’t say who the friend is, because I know that with just a tiny piece of information, you will know my whereabouts (and that you might kill him/her in the process of finding out). I’m actually writing this from the view of my desolate hotel room somewhere in Asia. I figured it was a perfect place, time, setting, and song for me to write to you. And I’ll be damned, because this is too fucking coincidental to discredit some supernatural force out there. You’ll never know where I really live, or at least I won’t let you. To the best of my ability, I won’t. I wish you the best in life and in love. I wish that you’d play the flute again, at least for some special people in your life, be they your children, parents, husband, or whatnot. With much pain, sorrow, emptiness, and a world of regret, I’m sorry. Take good care, now, you hear, my dear? Take care of those two; Jane and James. I know you named one after me. Thanks for that, but they’ll probably never know where you got the name anyway. I know you won’t say. They deserve that song of yours, though. They deserve it more than I do. I just have one more thing to say, though, before I leave. Forgive me, but it goes a little like this:
He came knocking at your door that night, and who was I to know what you’d done, much less, why?
I will always have you in my heart,
Sarah-Jane Nothdruft
AnachronicWorks 