To the Haven of Blooms in Yearning
Dear Jack Morrison,
I have received your memories, without all forms of recreation, facial expression, and it gave me a sullen in my face, hovering in my reflection. I didn’t receive it as a bundle, it’s separated as I replied to your inconsequential letter. Yes, and this one is one thing that against my liking – my wanting directly. It only applies to you about getting stoned and trying to feel one stale relationship we had right now. And I don’t enjoy it at all, knobhead. This letter just arrived five years past your delivery date, why didn’t use something quicker than one postman who wondered the same as you? The feeling, the facial expressions, the recreation… it’s all now soften, and it doesn’t even reflect our relationship. One ripe tomato can beat your spiced-up love letter a lot better.
The postman is naughty enough to read this as I wondered you began to think when will I reply this message, nasty enough to see what’s inside our relationship – what it’s like to be something bound together by similar likings but ended up sparking a forest fire of feelings, instead of a warm campfire. In the middle of the woods of love, that no one could escape from that as they entered its majestic tree canopy – as they meet their own doom – in their own territory once they knew.
At this moment, let my little cardboard box floats through the Sea of Names to see if that will find a way to you, find a way to restore something big – something we once knew, we stood for. My dearest Jack, the Winter of your appearance, the blizzard of our relationship, doesn’t reach the Summer sooner as I thought. Word doesn’t change a thing. No matter what I’ve said, nothing could repair our relationship per I wrote this letter that I shouldn’t write.
Jack Morrison the dumb,
You are wasting your time overthinking about your little sea of memories, your little ocean of wild imagination. I wondered the postman who sent this to me is already married, have a child, and live happily ever after – or he just sitting down by himself in sun-washed sands, with a bottle of coconut water accompanying him to watch the sun sets over the horizon. Buried in forgotten memories, embedded in the sense of loss as he watched the golden red skies turned into the blueish, mournful, darkened sky.
Frankly, I feel sorry for you, Jack Morrison,
Loving me so much that it blinds you from the reality that I don’t love you the same as you do to me, I’m a right partner for you not because “good” is in my nature – I just feel sorry for you, Jack. How do I know the envelope I receive five years after you wrote it contains memories, feelings, recreation, and facial expression? I am not as imaginative as you are, Jack. My life is full of calculations that suit me best, and yes, I don’t want to meet you after the incident. I will put the vase as the way it is, not even a chance I bring it up to the local sculptor and fix it to perfection. It’s beyond repairable, Jack.
Whenever I looked up to the rainy skies, I feel there’s a promising tearful goodbye.
Here it is! The reply from Angela… five years after Jack sent the letter! A companion letter to “From Stelvio Pass with Memories.”
Hope you guys like it!