Dear Sea,
Why do days start off perfect, those days where you think you are healing, and then some news crashes down on you, just as you think you’ll end on a sweet note, that throws all out of kilter? And why, in these instances, do I decide the people to write to are those who seldom write back? Why do I search to be close to those who don’t search to be close, in the same way, to me?
But, whether I wish to or not, I am close to you, and you are close to me. The closest relationship I’ll ever have is with the path I navigate. It is just you, my little boat, and I, and beyond that, other boats are not something I can steer. But I can wave to their captains occasionally.
I’ve learnt to love the little things and to look for them everywhere. I’ve learnt how to be happy. I’ve learnt to take nothing for granted. It is because I hold this little world, and try so hard to hold it together, that I struggle at points. I find it hard to find people wanting to look at this doll’s house I’ve made, to use a child’s metaphor. Occasionally I kid myself into thinking I don’t need anyone to.
I am emotionally close to people. They are physically far away. I don’t write to them as often as I should. I used to spend so much time trying to win over people who didn’t seem to care. I guess an element of that, in ignoring the people who do, has stayed.
It’s an uncomfortable truth to face, is how much does a person alienate other people? Not just through being unapologetically themselves or not knowing how to speak a language, but through deciding that they, for one reason or another, will not reach out?
Why do we write tragedies when, with just a little movement of the pen, we could write tragicomedies? Why do I have to spend my life waiting for a moment that has always been there? Cyrano’s nose was never the problem, but he made it be.
Well, I am improving. I bought 4 postcards today, each reminding me of the people I intend them for, and tomorrow I am going to a party that a friend I made at uni has invited me to. I am rising beyond comfort in introversion and overcaution with anxiety over loss of time. I also dined with my landlady today and talked about the times and ideas. My post as de facto Office Manager will also make me have to get know people and talk to them. Bus drivers are increasingly being godly – I couldn’t believe my ears today when my fare was written off, and I could pay. Kindness, or chivalry (I’m not sure which), is not dead.
I can’t talk about what happened in the evening after dinner, but I will hope and pray, and everything should be OK.
Other than that, blessings to count are that my colleagues say that I do well in pretty much every task given me, food tastes good, there are always new people to meet – people who ask you the time one sat could become your friends – and the scenery is fabulous.
Cyrano was a tragicomedy. It didn’t falter.
Given the chance, I would take his panache and write him a deserved ending.
My love,
Bella
At Least Afloat 