I write letters that I never send. To say the things I could have said and didn’t. And to remind myself of the rawness of human emotion when it’s unfiltered and without risk. Some are true, and some are merely exercises under the influence of a momentary muse.

My dearest John,

I’ve been investing some intentional thought into who you are…not who I want you to be, but who you REALLY are. It occurs to me that the longer I go without seeing you, the more isolated my view of you will become. I’m afraid it will narrow until all I see of you are your striking eyebrows, your careful pursuit of understanding, and your fear. Even worse, what if it becomes about the way you made me feel? I can’t stand the idea that one day the window through which I view you will be clouded by the presence of my own emotional experience. That you will be lost behind a veil woven from the fabric of my own needs.

Is it even possible to stop that from happening? Or do all experiences end up being muted impressions of the truth? Can we ever really turn off the filter that protects us from discovering the overwhelming falseness of what we think we remember and what we think is undeniable truth?

My guess would be, yes, you can turn off the filter, but the result is a schizophrenic state of madness. Not really a desirable goal, huh?

Hmmm, maybe I just figured out the “real” meaning of that lyric in Ani Difranco’s Untouchable Face: “You look like a photograph of yourself, taken from far, far away.” It took twelve years to catch up, but here I am at last.

I will drink a toast to the preservation of the true you, my friend…flaws and all.

Yours,
the coxswain