To the Lucky Ones

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for Letters of Love

Dear lucky one,

I hope this letter finds you alive – all senses and engines burnings – and well. It might find you waiting in line at the Christmas market. It might find you taking a break from sitting in the sun. It might find you doing research for a paper. It might find you in your most uncomfortable outfit, a little too full of life to start cleaning the kitchen – and a little too empty now that everyone’s gone. It might find you in the light, in the dark, in the back of his favourite café, in foreign places, in your parents’ car, in between her cream-coloured pillows, before, after, in the midst of chaos – only, I hope, not too late.

This letter comes to tell you a few things I know to be true, in the naive hope that you won’t mind me not always leading by example. You see, I believe that love, even the love radiating from a stranger’s writings, is better than no love at all, and this is my way of passing it on. Love, as you know, is the only mechanism there is that can put both your warmth and your strength into motion, make you both gentler and more self-assured, sing you to sleep and ready you for war in the same voice. I will spare you the kind of love that social networks, extended families and old lovers are for – that yes, you are beautiful, unique, cared for and always welcomed home (wherever, whomever or whatever your home is) and no, not everybody can love you the same despite this. Instead I’ve got others, wrapped in just as much love, I promise you that. Take a deep breath. Read on.

Allow yourself to roll life between your fingers and laugh at its nonsense from time to time. You can’t change overnight – we build ourselves up too strong to slip into another skin at the snap of one’s fingers, even if they happen to be our own. If you truly want to become an artist, give up everything else and work on your dream for a year. If you don’t achieve anything then you belong right back where you started from. Nobody shows up at your door at three in the morning only to tell you that they don’t love you anymore. If they do, know that they’re lying. People are very bad actors. They never live up to your expectations. Let the world move at its own pace and you move at yours. Eventually there will be some collisions and some of them you’ll love, but you’ll never, ever love anything more than letting yourself shine through the bullshit. Never fill yourself up to the top. Let there always be room for more. Take only what is necessary. Take only what you love. Experiences stay in you, you move out of them. The sweetness and danger of losing control are grossly underestimated.

There’s a certain beauty about being a mess too, about painting outside the lines, about outstretching your arms for things at top volume, at their most difficult, at their most needlessly complex. Don’t talk about fear in third person. Fear doesn’t have an identity. You are the fear. Always have a world of your own. Don’t be too eager to make room into someone else’s. One’s inner world is built on grounds that you’ll never fully understand, and you’ll always be cold and starved in it. Would you be happy, sleeping on the couch night after night? Complete vulnerability isn’t strength. It’s you losing to yourself, to your dragon, to your inner goddess. To life. Being yourself isn’t about being your weakest self. Safety is not always a friend. Safety believes that life exists all around you only to be contemplated in silence. Do not enjoy touch or use it, or anxiety will grow on you like bacteria. Indulge into knowing that you’ve made it so far, that you’re sorted, that you got to Heaven. That you are as good as dead. New-found energy is not exhausting. Still waiting is. When you’re on the run, intensity felt light. You remember indecisiveness as a long stormy night, and it’s just not poetic anymore.

People and their traumas don’t go together like milk and cereal. If they make you their secret hiding place and you pull the curtains and let the sun in they’ll leave. Not everybody wants your helping hand. Some just want your shoulder. None of your tricks can free them, because freedom isn’t given, it’s taken. You can learn so much from your most badass version. Sad people are like blood clots, waiting there to kill you. Don’t let them melt into you and mix their sadness with your own. The things that you’ve filled up with feelings will always incline the balance in their favour. Allow the new to show you a few tricks before you reject it. Put your heart into it, but don’t forget to take it back at the end of the day. Your fire is the most precious thing you’ll ever have. Don’t give it away to anybody. Nobody needs it. Don’t stain people with imagination and fill all the gaps with cotton candy. Sometimes you’re overly excited at the possibility of having found someone beautiful, that you risk making up miles of them. Don’t. And don’t be a vampire. Don’t suck on beauty, on youth, on love; on life. Make silhouettes of spilled ink out of them and pass them on. It’s the essential endurance strategy for surviving the empty soul wilderness, for all I know.

Whoever you happen to be, dear lucky one, know that I mean everything even if I don’t live it all out loud. Ah, I almost forgot! One last quick piece of advice for you – always strive to make your own luck. You won’t get much luckier than that.

Love, A

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2 thoughts on “To the Lucky Ones

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