I wanted to say hello, but never actually sent the message. It wasn't because I wasn’t willing to make contact; rather, I thought that popping up out of the blue would be a kind of trespass. I was scared to death that if I started suddenly, you would shut the door before I could see you. I didn’t want to be amongst all the other interruptions in your life that vanish as soon as you hit block, or be the reason for your reflex of self-protection.
So I went away without saying goodbye, keeping it in my pocket.
But here, talking honestly in your own gentle manner, I can sense that something has changed. A tiny authorization. A small glow. It was enough for me to respond not only with words but with commitment to everything you wrote.
That is exactly what I am indebted to you for: your time, not your value judgments.
The way you portray yourself is not a mere characterization but a look - a look that shows how your total inner world is affected and how your heart is both your guide and your burden. I read the way you impart that writing is your breath, the way you convert your emotions to something real, something that can last even under the bright sun of the morning. I read your humor, the playful little human, and it makes me almost able to see the half smile you cover up with it, half mocking, half safeguarding something soft.
You are a person who is crazy for the world and, at the same time, dismally, but picks up a pen because it’s the only way to keep the pain from spilling over. Who quietly, almost timidly, hopes to be accepted without judgment.
One who only desires a place where one can breathe.
You wanted friendship without bias.
I have no intention to invade your life. I have no intention to fast-forward into something that’s not real. I want to know you at the point you are already somewhere between writing and self-protection, between curiosity and caution, between the person you show to the world, and the quiet one who pens down their thoughts while everyone else is asleep.
If this message is friendly, it’s because you deserve it for so long before I actually wrote it.
If it is profound, it’s because you sparked it with your words.
If it is something living, it’s because you composed yourself like someone alive in ways most people don’t dare to.
Slowly, cautiously, curiously, if you let me, I’d like to be someone who listens, someone who understands the poetry in you, someone who treats your gentleness as a strength and not a flaw. Nevertheless, if you decide to open the door or just read this silently, I am thankful that our paths were meant to meet.
I’m here, too, warmly, respectfully, and without prejudice.