The Letters of Loss

Dear beloved pillow,

Thank you. Thank you for all these years of  familiarity and for all those which will come, if I do not toss you away in a flash of madness, like those which invade our minds every now and then, small demons of our self, eaters and corruptors of our spirits. Believe me, I’ll not do that on purpose to hurt your feelings, you know we all should be allowed to the bliss of a few moments of rage in our lives, purity for itself doesn’t exist alone and it would be such a boredom to be pure and sparkling as water, right now, allow me to sense the smallest drop of ire for such pretenders.

You were always there, being my comfort in late and devastating hours, when hope seemed uncertain and oodles of fears and loss would take me down, slowly, by mischief. The sound of cellos popping out from your core while I was sleeping, floating into my dreams, you planted those in my fate, like tiny roots of faith climbing the Olympus to see the gods; You will be there until the end of time; I know you will, even if replaced by a newer and softer one the sentiments will keep flowing because you are the peaceful moment I long for every day, the pearl in the bottom of the vast dim sea, where filthy tentacles grope in the weak gloomy light, in the hunt for a victim to submerge in nightmares, breathing less dystopias. You were never terrified by the bad dreams and I held you in remission for my unfaithful sin, my despair, my loss, the heaviness I’ve grounded in you. I know I’m forgiven. I will always be. With you.

*here

With all these years reading my thoughts you became a philosopher, the theorist of life the writer of freedom, everything I longed for and all I pursued and intend to be in centuries, like a pale trace in the clear sky, a name written in black under the roof of a public house memorable for all its stories and scenes, a name drafted with the hands of a stubborn child, like once I was, proudly adventuring in the world of grown ups and day dreamers. You’ve seen all and you will watch the rest. At least you are not frightened about a possible tragic ending, you certainly will going to suffer the frustrated anguish caused by the loss of the cherished ones, at the most someone will stab your heart and tear apart the dreams I poured into your core, spreading the feathers of your lyricism in the pure air of a morning sun light. You will always be like poetry, like a deceased reminiscence of life, you and I, the same. The obstacle and the solution. 

Sincerely,
the nostalgia