I still wonder if she read them.
I mean- I thought she had, the way she [blot] At least some, certainly, and the last time we spoke, before parting, how she [blot blot] but I don’t know. She knows I read hers. [blot] Her letters, I mean. How strange it is, to be stuck in two worlds the way we are. There is the one where we are merely and much more than the words we string together, carefully with all manner of feeling we wish to give to them, their rhythm or rhyme. [spot] By mere mention of those words, implication of the thoughts, I feel that world pull me, the place I feel much more of who I am, despite not really being there quite at all.
And then there is the world of bodies and stumbling phrases. The one where Avis nearly slips into the ocean at my every arrival. The one where I can never quite say what I think, never quite speak all that rushes around my mind, as it moves far too quickly; I grab at the thoughts fleeing, and get only a piece, another piece, and then another gets in the way when I try to find the rest of the one before. Even here. Even in my own tome I don't always write what I think, as though [a few spots] they are going to find it.
I already saw the result of my mis-matched phrasing. I [spot] I think she understood that I was speaking the truth when I explained. It is really only doubt that keeps me from saying she did; I think my desperate.. word vomit amused her far more than it.. perhaps gleamed real understanding. Though I cannot be so bold ever as to assume what she may or may not understand. I hope, though, that she knew I did not mean what she thought. I take she does. She was kinder afterwards. I [blot]
It was just horrifying that she might think that I did not appreciate, did not absolutely cherish, the deliberate truths that she writes. Not even necessarily truths in the common sense of the word, but truths of feeling, of how words fit when in that world, a place I'd thought for the longest time would be only a solitary escape. I couldn't even capture a phrase that would rightly explain how I feel for them, her letters. Knowledge does not hold the same meaning for her as it does for me. But anything less would be a disservice. More than poetry. More than stories. More than tales, or musings, or intimate written soliloquy. It was a conversation between the innerworkings of us both, through a medium of our [blot]
I can’t even write the word I was going to, without trailing embers, thinking of what she’d likely say to me if she read it~ Hells, am I to have her quips hovering over my mind as I write to myself, now~?
Whatever it is, it is.. so very close to us, something that would never otherwise be known or seen, and I cannot even find the winding phrases to place which would quite purvey the same feeling.
[blot]
There is so much I am not saying. It all continues to rush through my mind, all of it~
She adored the Eagle and Quill. I was so glad I could show her, that she would now have a place to go and be surrounded with the stories she lives for. Avis said she might’ve been looking for years, and now she has it there and it is so terribly exciting~ I am not sure those who run the shop may necessarily appreciate her sleeping in it, per-se, though. I [blot] I offered she could stay in my study, should that be an issue, and [a few more blots]
Well, of course she had something to say about that! It wasn’t- [blot] I mean [a few more spots] Well, I am awake during her hours of sleeping, am I not? I do not see how it would be that strange, if she were to rest while I work in the other half of the room. I mean, if she truly wished to stay there, that would be the logical solution. I doubt they would accept her staying in anyone else’s room.
[a few more spots]
The next time [blot]
How would I even bring that up? I feel I will merely have to storm up one day and [blot] just say it.
[blot]
Though whatever it is that had occupied her mind in... dissonance when I found her, I hope it is somewhat remedied.
[a few blots]
I am surprised, though, that she [a few more spots] would take my hand. Even just for a moment. She.. is certainly not like them.
[There are some blots on the page, as though the book were hurriedly snapped shut before the ink fully dried.]
I mean- I thought she had, the way she [blot] At least some, certainly, and the last time we spoke, before parting, how she [blot blot] but I don’t know. She knows I read hers. [blot] Her letters, I mean. How strange it is, to be stuck in two worlds the way we are. There is the one where we are merely and much more than the words we string together, carefully with all manner of feeling we wish to give to them, their rhythm or rhyme. [spot] By mere mention of those words, implication of the thoughts, I feel that world pull me, the place I feel much more of who I am, despite not really being there quite at all.
And then there is the world of bodies and stumbling phrases. The one where Avis nearly slips into the ocean at my every arrival. The one where I can never quite say what I think, never quite speak all that rushes around my mind, as it moves far too quickly; I grab at the thoughts fleeing, and get only a piece, another piece, and then another gets in the way when I try to find the rest of the one before. Even here. Even in my own tome I don't always write what I think, as though [a few spots] they are going to find it.
I already saw the result of my mis-matched phrasing. I [spot] I think she understood that I was speaking the truth when I explained. It is really only doubt that keeps me from saying she did; I think my desperate.. word vomit amused her far more than it.. perhaps gleamed real understanding. Though I cannot be so bold ever as to assume what she may or may not understand. I hope, though, that she knew I did not mean what she thought. I take she does. She was kinder afterwards. I [blot]
It was just horrifying that she might think that I did not appreciate, did not absolutely cherish, the deliberate truths that she writes. Not even necessarily truths in the common sense of the word, but truths of feeling, of how words fit when in that world, a place I'd thought for the longest time would be only a solitary escape. I couldn't even capture a phrase that would rightly explain how I feel for them, her letters. Knowledge does not hold the same meaning for her as it does for me. But anything less would be a disservice. More than poetry. More than stories. More than tales, or musings, or intimate written soliloquy. It was a conversation between the innerworkings of us both, through a medium of our [blot]
I can’t even write the word I was going to, without trailing embers, thinking of what she’d likely say to me if she read it~ Hells, am I to have her quips hovering over my mind as I write to myself, now~?
Whatever it is, it is.. so very close to us, something that would never otherwise be known or seen, and I cannot even find the winding phrases to place which would quite purvey the same feeling.
[blot]
There is so much I am not saying. It all continues to rush through my mind, all of it~
She adored the Eagle and Quill. I was so glad I could show her, that she would now have a place to go and be surrounded with the stories she lives for. Avis said she might’ve been looking for years, and now she has it there and it is so terribly exciting~ I am not sure those who run the shop may necessarily appreciate her sleeping in it, per-se, though. I [blot] I offered she could stay in my study, should that be an issue, and [a few more blots]
Well, of course she had something to say about that! It wasn’t- [blot] I mean [a few more spots] Well, I am awake during her hours of sleeping, am I not? I do not see how it would be that strange, if she were to rest while I work in the other half of the room. I mean, if she truly wished to stay there, that would be the logical solution. I doubt they would accept her staying in anyone else’s room.
[a few more spots]
The next time [blot]
How would I even bring that up? I feel I will merely have to storm up one day and [blot] just say it.
[blot]
Though whatever it is that had occupied her mind in... dissonance when I found her, I hope it is somewhat remedied.
[a few blots]
I am surprised, though, that she [a few more spots] would take my hand. Even just for a moment. She.. is certainly not like them.
[There are some blots on the page, as though the book were hurriedly snapped shut before the ink fully dried.]
