The Letter

I had a really bad night, and now I’m back at the airport. (I have to say “back” at the airport, because the last weeks I seem to live here.)

I couldn’t sleep because I talked with someone about the letter I carry around with me. It’s a kind of love letter, not a real one, but still… Joana, my straight best friend and occasional lover, had apologised with it for treating me like a fanatic fan after a long night of spilling her soul to me. (I wrote about the letter when I started my first blog.)

Anyway, it’s not the letter what this is about, it’s the fact that I was talking about it with a person I know nothing – or next to nothing – about. Funny thing is, that I never talk about my feelings with women I don’t know. In fact, I stopped talk seriously to strangers at all. It is ages ago that I listened to people’s sorrows, and tried to help them through their dark times. They talk to you, spill their hearts and then they disappear. Maybe it’s the nature of what I’m doing: Writers have to listen to sorrows, not to happy endings. We should politely disappear after doing the job.

I however stopped doing the job at all.

Even more astonishing that I talked about deeply private things with someone again. About the letter. (A real letter, btw., not the message romantics, people are so fond about these days.) I told this woman how Joana’s letter affects me still today. I mean, what it really does to me.

I know, I should be happy about what Joana had written to me that day; it is an apology – one of the officially most admired women in the world had declared her love for me. And all what I do when I hold her writing in my hands is remembering what she had said the night before.

But I’m still here. Still with Joana from time to time.

And so I talked about the letter she wrote to me years ago, and how it still hurts every day. That I carry it around to remind me on who I am. And who she is. And why our love was poised from the beginning. And to make me cry.

Again, this is not about the letter. It’s about the fact that I talked about it with someone who doesn’t belong to my “circle of reality” as I like to call my not-so-online life.

I like this woman, I start to like her girlfriend too. I guess I wouldn’t talk to her about such things if I didn’t. It’s nice to have someone you can talk to without the complications that can arise when your personal lives start to intertwine.

Isn’t this right?