As my twin flame drew the four of us together, she and me and Chantal and her twin
everything seemed to be going for the best
again my impatience whispered the steepest part of the road was behind me
Two days later my twin casted the first shadow on my enthusiasm
She told me that yes, she loved me, she had written it, drawn it
She loved me as the tender brother she didn’t have
I resembled her more than any brother could resemble her
but for now she would reject me as a lover
and while writing that sentence she said she felt the barbed wires around her heart cutting in her flesh and the blood dripping on her ribs
it was painful for her to reject me, this time she was the one to feel the pain, but she told me it was a thought, an act, that gave her energy
she was writing me from the airport as she had yet another trip scheduled with her friends, and she told me she could hardly focus, so the mail was brief
her words did not hurt me or discourage me as much as she thought they would, as she had shared part of the hurt of rejecting me, accepting to live an emotion she usually blocked
However, the next day, Saturday night, while I was reading a novel I started to feel sad and angry and jealous without reason and I wrote her several pieces, among which Don’t ignore emotions
Don’t ignore emotions. I remind myself tonight. Understand them, act on them.
I’m reading, still reading. I finished book two, started with the third. But I feel a lingering oppression.
If I continue reading discarding it, this oppression will stay.
There is dull, repetitive disco music outside which adds a layer on the oppression, as I’m forced to either listen to the music or close the window and deprive myself of the freshness of the night. Now that I’m writing, I’m going to try covering it with my own music and earphones.
What oppresses me is that I’m too avidly waiting for you to write me.
Impatience. Fear of indifference, of coldness, of rejection.
Yet, it is something I feel, for a reason or another, and that I will not discard.
It is a feeling I often felt in the past. Sometimes I would write you and trust you entirely and not be awaiting an answer. And other times I would be waiting and waiting, nervously, unable to focus on anything.
Now, it has nothing to do with that. I know that whether or not you write it is for the best, to understand new things, to heal.
And that’s why I’m writing you this letter. I’m not writing to ask you to write me.
I’m writing to try understanding this particular emotion I feel.
I’m writing to chase away this oppression.
I’m writing to set myself free, free. I just want to enjoy the night, the book I read, the music I listen to, the freshness of the air, the peacefulness of my heart. Just that.
I don’t want to be tempted to check every half an hour if you have wrote me, already knowing the answer in my heart. I don’t want to. I want to be delivered of this impatience, of this nervousness, of this fear.
I already feel better from having written all these words. Writing is healing. And I like the music in the background.
Farewell my dear, weird twin.
And the next morning I wrote her again, a mail called The wall of fear
The uncomfortable feeling didn’t leave; it simply takes different expressions over time.
I’m tired of it. But I’m happy to be able to seize it with my hands, not to let it dig in in my flesh as I used to do, ending up in empty wasted days. In one week, the craving to fulfill my fetish has dimmed, almost gone. It’s not yet healed, but I’m not as empty as I used to be, as prone to be carried by anguishes to the black pit of emptiness and drowning there without even realizing it. Now, I can see it coming.
On relatively bad days like this morning or last night, I still have troubles to consider you as an ally, as my greatest friend. Because I’m still afraid of you. Because even though I know that deep down we share the same dream, the same light, on the surface I still have my insecurities. The insecurity that I am chasing after you, that I am a burden for you. That when I give you my full attention, my full heart, you give me only a fragmentary part of your attention, a little part of your heart. I know all this is not true, an illusion; yet it is hard to shake it.
I’m afraid of your silence, of your coldness. Of your anger, of your harshness. Depending on times, more the former, more the latter.
My fear places a wall between us. I can’t see anymore your face smiling as I saw it in *****. I retreat into myself, hunch my shoulders, waiting for the blow to come, or just for the cold storm of indifference to torment me.
Maybe the only way to heal is to actually feel all this turmoil of emotions.
A long silence.
A harsh letter.
A long silence.
Over and over again. Things I was afraid of. Things I am still afraid of. Or maybe not. I’m afraid that they occur, but if they actually occurred, I would accept them, understand them.
Still, all this reasoning doesn’t rid me of my anguished emotions.
Because it’s all written in doubt.
Because I trust you and love you and that is the only thing that matters in this world.
Because I must abandon myself to this love and lower this wall of fear. Let the retained ocean flow undammed and not fear the huge crashing waves. Only breathe the salty air and feel the wind on my skin and the water on my feet.
I look into your eyes and smile to you
She wrote me a long mail a couple of hours later
My feelings had not fooled me, my intuitions had been unfortunately correct
The night before she had been to a pub crawl with her friends in Poland and she had had many beers
and afterwards she had kissed a guy and made out with him, for the first time without fears, not afraid to take charge as she always had wished to do but never dared to
fortunately for her, afterwards she had the presence of mind to go back to her hostel and not spend all the night outdoors
and this morning she had woken up with a tremendous headache because her resistance to alcohol wasn’t very high
she told me that she had visited the same morning the largest salt mines in Europe and had loved them and thought I would have found a lot of inspiration in them too
she asked me why I was afraid and jealous and insecure of a new relationship she would start
she told me that probably she would let the river of attraction carry her again underwater, to resurface a little bit farther or much farther
there was a guy back in the Netherlands with which she was falling in love, a Putin as Chantal and me would have called him, a cold haughty boy
she ended her mail explaining me why she called me her weird twin, a terminology I had readily adopted
weird stems from wyrd in ancient English, which means fate, so I was her twin of fate, or destined twin
I felt an extreme amount of anger and pain after reading her mail
not only did she go with a stray boy the night before, that I could accept because it had already passed
but she thought of starting new relationships with some stupid guys like the bullies I hated at school
that was too hard to accept, even though part of me knew that what she had written me would not necessarily happen
perhaps it was only to make me doubt and heal this anguish
I wrote her a mail in this state of mind, Wrenching anger
I rushed through my dinner to write, but now I don’t know from where to start. My inspiration is knotted. My eyes are tired and sleepy, a bit hazy.
I felt a lot of anger and sadness. Especially anger for now. A wrenching anger.
Many times, I managed to break free from it. Yet for it to return into another form.
It is an endless struggle, almost hopeless at times.
Anger knotting my stomach and my chest.
Because it’s painful, so painful. And hopeless.
I feel cheated, betrayed, rejected, abandoned, undesired. I would like to just send you to hell and walk away and never turn back. I feel disgusted and dispirited. I would like to break something, to jump from somewhere. To end it, to be delivered of this burning anger.
But at the same time I know, I know that I’m trapping myself in my own anger. I know that I’m trapping you as well. I’m glad that you feel more womanly and have unblocked something and had the courage to act on your intuitions. As I wrote this morning, I love you and that’s the only thing that counts. When I am strong, when I am myself, I don’t worry about what you are doing. I just let this tenderness for you flow through me.
Right now, I feel serene. I don’t know if this feeling will last or not. If the anger will be back (it will probably) and if it will wane leaving place to sadness. Waking up in the middle of the night or in the morning with a heavy heart and a certain hopelessness.
But if it happens, it will mean that I still need to understand anger and sadness. To understand the fear behind them. And to uproot from my spirits the trees that produce such bitter fruits. Maybe after that, you will be able to feel again all the power of your own emotions and all the fierceness, the fire, irradiating from your soul.
Breathe. Close your eyes. Breathe. Focus on your anger. Focus on the cracks in your head. Focus on this nervous connection you feel. Breathe, fill your belly with air, healthy air, fill it with air to push the anger away. Focus on the cracks in your head. Don’t latch out in anger. Don’t be angry. Anger is an anguish. A wall to protect yourself from sadness. Bring down the wall. Bring down the wall. Breathe. The cracks. Breathe. Relax. Breathe
The next day she replied to me in anger too
She told me to disentangle myself from her
To find the tree bearing bitter fruits in my spirit and uproot it
To look at the lake mirroring her face and throw stones into it until it would mirror my own face
She told me to stop controlling her and holding her on a tight leash
And she asked me to be kind and loving to Chantal because she had nothing to do with my anger
The day after I needed to take an early flight to join my family in Sardinia, another confrontation that awaited me there as I would need to reassure and convince them of my choice of quitting my job
But my alarm didn’t ring and I missed the flight
I panicked, as I’m usually really bad at fixing all those logistic details when they go wrong
but suddenly I had an inspiration and decided to take the train and the boat to join them within the next morning
I embarked on a long train journey across Italy, and I wrote a long letter to my twin while sitting in the train, until a woman rose and broke the charger of my laptop, leaving me with a half-empty battery that wouldn’t last long
it added to the frustration and the worry of the trip, but at the same time I was already feeling in a better mood respect to the day before
I’m feeling strangely appeased now.
Yesterday, while walking in a damp forest in the Jura mountains, I understood that there was a very deep wound in me protected by a well of sadness and walls of anger. I understood that you only awakened this wound. That it was here independently of you. That my first impulse was to be angry with you and sad. A natural reaction to protect myself when it hurts so much, but a false one. It is as if I started shouting against the surgeon who came to operate my wounded limb to save me because of the pain. As if I pushed her back and condemned myself to keep the infection. No, to heal, I must accept the fresh, raw, pain, without blaming anyone for it. It is a wyrd wound. A wound of fate, for I have not undergone any consequential trauma in this life. Except this acute need of being loved entirely. This fear of being rejected. Something that is shared by all human beings I imagine, but maybe they are less consciously aware of it, and this need takes in them other, more primeval, manifestations.
So yes, being angry with you is wrong. But I don’t regret what I said. Because I wanted to share what I felt without censure, without fear. Even if emotions have a wrong foundation, they still are telling us something valuable about ourselves. Even while telling you about my anger, I was quiet and I knew I should trust you instead.
Along the damp overgrown river banks, I also thought about your wound. This wound you had taken as a child, that weighs so much on you and on which you still have no grasp. I understood that I could empathize with you, I could hold you, sustain you, but this wound would still be yours and there would be no way to share your pain with you. Your parents abandoned you, your idea of love crumbled, your childhood was in a way shattered. All these things are yours, and despite how much I try, I cannot feel them. And yet, this wound of yours is also about the need of being loved entirely. As little kids, we feel the love of our parents toward us to be perfect, unconditional. And then they abruptly abandoned you, or at least you felt so. You had lost this heaven, you were out of love. And it hurt so much. And since, you have craved for this true love as well. But with a tremendous fear, even greater than your need for true love. The fear of being abandoned again. And so you’ve built walls around your heart, to protect yourself, to preserve yourself from another blow which might be deadly. And now you understand that you cannot love or be loved without putting down these walls entirely. But it is so frightening, when you stand on these walls and the emptiness around and you look on all the mountains and the plains around, at their sheer beauty but also at their ruggedness and grandness. You want to reach all this beauty, but you must first jump from the heights of your walls in the emptiness below, accept to lose any control you now have over your own life to regain it, to regain love.
And here is where my pain joins yours. They have the same intensity. Yours is caused by your parents who abandoned you; but in reality it is not the fault of your parents; your pain is related to something deeper even. This craving every soul has for true love to flow freely to and from her heart. My pain is caused by you, as in the past it had been caused by ***** who had rejected me, in silence. In truth, it is not your fault, or her fault. It is only that you awaken the echo of something deeper.
By reawakening this wound I have, it is the only way for me to share – or at least to mirror – the wound of the divorce. You were hurt by your parents, unknowingly, and now you hurt someone else, unknowingly. That’s the wheel of life. But deep down, you’re not hurting me, you’re helping me. And I’m helping you. To accept the depth of this wound, to muster the courage to confront it, to break open the black hole. Waiting for the miracle to happen.
My charger broke and I feel nauseous and I cannot focus any longer.
I love you my dear, weird twin.
I safely arrived in Sardinia the next day after a night spent on a huge boat from where I contemplated the sunrise, and watched Olbia’s harbor waking up under a clear morning sky
my trip ended with two hours of bus on small roads where I couldn’t take in anymore the curves and the vibrations and threw up
I was finally with my family, glad to retrieve them
The next day I wrote my twin a short mail called Confrontation
What’s the use of writing you everyday?
I don’t really know myself, but I feel like trying to write to make sense of my emotions.
You still have pikes of anger against me, I think. Because of how I dared (and still dare) judging you; feeling emotions related to things you do that aren’t supposed to concern me in the first place; betraying your trust, for you can write yourself only to me, and I deprive you of that by being so jealous and possessive.
Anger is a convenient shield. Last time, you held it for five months in a row. A shield not to think, not to feel. A shield against a part of yourself, a shield against me.
While writing that I feel anger, confrontation. Like the first day in ******.
Anger with your silence. Anger with you drinking alcohol or using other drugs. Anger with you writing in noisy coffees. Anger with you starting a new relationship. Anger with you not living up to your truth, not seeing its beauty, and trampling it instead. Anger with what could be and is not.
I know anger is an illusion, a deceit. But right now all I feel is anger. Is it like your anger with me? A ruthless emotion indeed. Keep it close at hand, feel its reassuring warmth.
It’s interesting to see how anger could hide under a crust of unfocusedness and anguish. I had to start writing you to uncover it. Tonight there is no place for tenderness in my heart. Confrontation has filled it all.
Go to hell with all your silences and all your hypocrisy. Find the tenderness you need in your own heart. Don’t bother me anymore.
I wrote her again the following day, a small mail called Sulking, telling her how after an initial confrontation with my family we had each other come at a deeper understanding of the other
me in stopping to judge my parents, they in starting to believe in my dream of becoming a famous novelist
That’s how Sulking ended
During past periods of silence, I didn’t dare to write you. I was too proud for that. I waited for you to start writing me again. I couldn’t show you how needy I was. But now I don’t care anymore.
Well I do care, if you told me you threw my letters without even reading them, or just skimmed through them, I would still be hurt. But it’s not important, as the greatest benefit I gain from these letters is while writing them.
The kingdoms of stone. I stepped into them today, when we visited a grotto dug in a steep cliff by the sea. There was water into it, sea and river blending. It was marvelously fresh and the rocks and the water spoke to me and I imagined a whole people living into underground kingdoms. Rivers to travel cutting through the rocks. Other paths climbing up and down where the rock is dry and reaching to other levels of the world. A maze of narrow passes. Sentries and other devices posted there. Innocuous entries from outside that fool the foreigner’s eye. Inside, a whole world. Large places and buildings, some with waters, some without. Climbing into tall mountains that resemble cathedral arrows from inside. And the strength of the wind when you reach the peaks and the dazzling light. Peoples of the water, of the sea and the river, which nurture and nourish them.
Tell me more of the dream into the flower, or that’s the title I’ve associated with your drawing. Tell me more about anything. Or just continue sulking. It just suits you as much as anything else.
And I continued writing her in the next two days
I’m pressed by time this morning.
After sending you the undelivered letter yesterday night and turned off the light, I felt an anguish and the urge to write you again. But I had already shut down my computer and unplugged the wifi. So I didn’t.
My sexual needs have considerably dwindled lately, and so I wonder if the opposite happened to you and if you have entered or will soon enter another relationship.
It smells of fish and tides outside, scents carried by a breath of wind.
There’s a lot of sun, a cloudless sky. Colors are pale and distant. They become warmer and more vibrant as the sun lowers toward the horizon, behind the mountains here.
It’s hard to wake up in the morning. I don’t know if it is because my window is narrow and lets in little amounts of morning light. Or because we have tiring days.
I wonder what you do of your days and how you feel. If you feel free and inspired. Or if instead you are taken under the current of obligations.
Farewell for now
And again another mail called Stifling the pain
Disappointment. That you didn’t write me.
But at the same time do I really want to hear all what you’re doing right now? Will the hurt and the disgust that you are hunting or being hunt help me? Or is it better not to know anything of it.
And how can I expect you to share, when I am so prompt to judge, to command, to control.
I’m having troubles to right this mail. I don’t know what I truly want to say. It could mean that it’s time to be silent. But no, I like writing you and I will not deprive myself of this moment of clarity. Before, I just used to wait passively. Now, no more of that. What I want to say, to do, I don’t wait for it, I do it right now. No more waiting.
I’m distant from you while writing all that, distant from my feelings. I’m still afraid to be hurt or to show how I am hurt. I still affect a detached, disembodied tone.
My head cracks. It’s hot. I’m determined, much more than before at least.
I started to tell my brother the way of kings. My sister listened too, and even my father lent an ear.
I was inspired again to write today. The kingdoms of stone starting to take shape, to take its place in the world, not very far from the shining town.
Whatever you are doing and feeling, even if it hurts at first, I will come to accept. I don’t have other choices than accepting you, understanding you.
But maybe, you still don’t accept that you can hurt someone so deeply with acts that belong to the realm of your most basic freedom. Writing. Not writing. Keeping the silence. Kissing another person. Being close to another soul. Drinking. Partying.
No, it’s hard to accept it. It’s hard to accept it while actually keeping your entire freedom. And so the other way is stifling this pain. Pretending it doesn’t exist, it never existed, it has NO REASON to exist, because YOU OWE ME NOTHING.
I now feel like masturbating. I miss the sweetness, the pleasure, the oblivion that come with the act.
I have no access to my usual material as I’ve blocked (again) almost everything.
I could also do it without any support. Sometimes in the past it worked and was agreeable.
I have little privacy and that’s one of the reasons that discourage me.
It it easier not to do it than to do it, so my case for doing it should be really strong. Yet, indecision usually pleads in favor of masturbating.
I don’t know if it is right or wrong. If it is a way to accept myself more fully, or a way to obliviate and reinforce the black hole. Or maybe both.
By considering the title under which I chose to place this mail – stifling the pain – it may be the answer I was looking for.
And the same night she finally wrote me again, a mail called Elfia
After her Poland trip she now was at Castlefest a Dutch fantasy festival
She told me that she intended to write me for several days but she couldn’t find a moment to be alone and quiet in the noise, as she was sleeping in a tent at the festival
She told me she didn’t remain angry with me for long this time
and she said each time she received my mails she read them immediately when she could, hungrily, secretively
it had become a routine to hear from me on a daily basis, and one would think my mails would fall into the background, but they didn’t
she’d almost worry if I didn’t write her
she told me she had seen a beautiful sunset but she couldn’t watch it as she was driving on a long distance for the first time
and she told me she was attracted to a new guy, not the Putin she had mentioned, that had been a trick of her mind
no this new guy was different, different from her previous boyfriends
he didn’t hold a conventional job and instead chose to live his passion and take care of gaming festivals of Dungeons and Dragons type
she felt very much drawn and attracted to him and always felt like smiling and laughing in his presence
but she didn’t dare to follow her attraction as he was of a different social class, and how would she present him to her parents later on, and so on
she knew these worries were stupid and petty and superficial but they still blocked her
she prayed me not to be jealous and instead help her
and again I believe she felt part of the pain while writing these words
And when I read them I wasn’t too sad or angry, and instead encouraged her in a mail called Accepting the attraction
Acceptance. Accept him. Accept the effect he has on you. The laughing, the physical attraction. Don’t think of what your parents will say or think. They don’t need to know of him – for now. You don’t need to plan it several months or years ahead. Just focus on the now.
Because as long as you don’t accept him, you will not be able to see he’s not the right person for you. Since you are afraid, it blurs all your perception. Or at least it prevents you from seeing clearly through his soul.
Accept him and don’t belittle yourself respect to him. You are as worthy as he is.
And remember the balance. For it to work – truly – you need to make him laugh as much as he makes you laugh.
I don’t like festivals. I don’t like noise. I don’t like groups of people. I don’t like cars. So many things I dislike.
I could have loved the fantasy festival you’re talking about in my teens, surrounded with my cousins and siblings. I would have. The music as well.
But not now. Not with Chantal. Maybe she thinks she would like it – maybe she has a false perception of how such festivals are (or maybe I’m the one who’s wrong). But from what I feel I wouldn’t enjoy all these people, all the noise and all the meaninglessness. Yes meaningless. That’s my perception of it.
One’s truth is to be discovered individually, in the quiet. A personal journey. Gathering a mass of people never helps it. Or at least it never helped me.
It tires me, it drains me.
Yes I am jealous. That’s my primary way of reacting. And over-protective.
I love you. But I also love myself. I need to love myself. I can’t be selfless.
When I write you something, I must be convinced by what I say. Not half-empty words.
The same night she wrote me a very brief mail called Wave, where she told me she had felt a wave of love for me and wanted to share it before it passed, promising me to write me a lengthy mail the next day
Meanwhile Chantal was in turmoil too
She suffered from the physical distance with me, and was also upset when I spent long hours writing my twin and barely wrote her
I was in need of my twin, and Chantal was in need of me
and as she became more needy it angered me and made me flee her sometimes, because of how irrational her fears were
in retrospective that’s how my twin must have perceived me sometimes, I knew it already then but I see it more clearly now
I tried to reassure Chantal on a daily basis, but she needed constant reassurance, and I didn’t have the time nor the will to do that
she was in pain as much as I was in pain, uncovering the wound of abandonment
and she told her pain to her twin, and he wrote her a few times but always ambiguous words that made her doubt even more
That day, I wrote her a short poem to try to encourage her
This is a short prayer
For you to find peace
Oh wanderer in these lands of turmoil
Crossing deserts of burning sand
Your feet sore, your breath heavy
Climbing rugged mountains without the tiniest sheltering shrub
Your heart as bare as the landscape around
Remember days of contentment, of soft joys
Remember boundless stretches of seas
Sometimes soft and gentle as the mirror surface of a lake
Sometimes rugged and foaming as the wild hill of oaks and brambles
And the yellow sand and the tall pine trees
And the wild white flowers that grow where no other plants do
Silky and sweet and mysterious creatures of the wood
Remember the cry of seagulls and the feel of the breeze on your skin
Remember and trust
Trust your hands and your feet to bring you back
Breathe, breathe deeply and trust your heart
Trust the truth of your heart
Trust its light to guide you under the sun and the moon alike
Trust yourself, trust others, trust life
Breathe, breathe deeply and close your eyes
My twin wrote me as promised, telling me that by accepting her I had helped her accepting herself
and that she’d now live her attraction with the boy fully, and told me the usual dance of attraction had already started, each sending subtle messages to the other and starting to chat on whatsapp to define their next meeting
she also told me she was resting at her mother’s house and hoped that soon creativity would reawaken in a Flow within her
she told me she’d perhaps write me again the same night, but she didn’t
I wrote her the next morning, replying to the questions she had asked me, in particular why I dwelled so much in the past, and she in future
Let’s delve into my mixed feelings.
Disappointment that you did not right me again over the night (sometimes I write “right” instead of “write” and I won’t correct the sentence; perhaps there is a reason). I’m always hungry for more. Except when you tell me the right sort of things – the things I truly want to hear.
Anxiousness while reading your mail. I always feel anxious because I never know what to expect. Sometimes when the anxiousness is too strong, I can’t anymore focus on all the meaning of your sentences. And I read it again, once, twice. Then, I understand it better. But the anxiousness never abandons me entirely.
Flutters in my stomach after reading it. I wasn’t angry or jealous (or very slightly), but unsettled – which is a mixed emotion.
Strangely, I realize I’m as impatient as you are for things to unravel with ******.
Why do I dwell so much in the past, you ask. Do I? Maybe because my childhood was happy and I recall of it as a lost paradise. Maybe because of my fear of time passing and things changing. Maybe I don’t like change. Isn’t it unsettling for the rational mind to construct an image of the world, of your surrounding, of your family and friends. And for quite some time believe this image is frozen, carved in stone. To discover that no, in fact the world is as changing as the cloud patterns themselves. Because of the flow of time. Time. This thing that make us changelings and mortals.
Why do I hate so much groups? Because they take away my energy, because people are truer, more interesting, when they are alone with me. But, but, I’ve learnt recently to be physically with a group and not be there mentally, to delve in my own thoughts, my own emotions, without fearing not to listen to general conversations. At this point it is not anymore tiring. But I still prefer to have my freedom, a bubble of silence surrounding me, and be able to sit down or to walk or to read or to write whenever I feel like, and a group is a constraint in that. It’s the same reason for which right now I wouldn’t like festivals. A constraint. Too much music. Too much drinking when three sips of beer are enough to give me a headache and break down my focus (it’s a new thing this very low tolerance for alcohol). People behaving freely, as caricatures of themselves. I find that almost frightening. I recall when I did improvised theater and the people who participated became exaggerations of themselves – in voice pitches, in intentions. It unsettled me. Because I see it as being entirely different from being true. I can’t deal with such people, they have another energy level than I do. But, of course, it’s all an anguish. When I’ll be entirely true to myself, I’ll be able to move freely through quiet landscapes and busy festivals without resenting any.
Why do I hate so much being too tired and foggy? Because I can’t do anymore what I want to do, I can’t read, I can’t write. I have to sleep and I often see sleep as a hindrance to my fierceness. I wanted very badly to do other, interesting, things which I could not do during the day because of the obligations that drained me, and now I can’t.
And the next days were passed between my family, we had good discussions during the day and I cooked for them at night
and waiting anxiously what would happen between her and this new boy
the awaiting was a torture, and finally she told me a meeting had been set
and she added I had no reason to be jealous, because nothing can compare with the love between twins
a relationship with a lover is a constant misunderstanding and had nothing to do with the perfect love I thought it was
she told me she was fascinated by the mirror between twins, how they feel each other pains to a certain extent
and she told me that whatever happens in life, even during the longest periods of silence, twins always always love one another
Her words were not enough to reassure me though, it hurt me constantly to imagine her new relationship unraveling
Yes, I had encouraged her to explore it, but it was also too much pain to bear, and to make things worse she didn’t reply me as regularly as before, and my anger culminated in Flowing rage
Right before opening my mail, I hesitated to go on a walk along the sea. The sky is cloudy and it touches the sea. The distinction between them has grown thinner. And even the mountains are wrapped in gray. It is peaceful and beautiful.
And I felt an indescribable rage against you. The rage was so strong I decided to write you for the fourth, fifth (?) time in a row. And then I saw your letter and read it and understood better from where the anger came and now it faded. It faded but it is still here. I’m like a spoiled child who wants to make a scene even though he knows he’s wrong, he knows it’s unwise.
I don’t like it when you call me your brother. I’m not. I don’t like it when you try to categorize this bond – even if I do that. I hate you for making me live all this. I hate you for making me waiting and waiting. I hate you for it and I throw all the fault on you. I hate you. I would like you to let me be, to stop haunting me. To stop haunting me if this bond is only a teasing, a suffering. I’m fed up and tired of it. If this bond is real, I want to see its realness. Until now I’ve only seen a ghost of a bond. Getting enthusiast and then losing all my joy and being invaded by sorrow and anger and awaiting. Over and over and over. I’m tired of it. What I write does not make any sense, but I’m just fed up of you.
I want to convey you all my rage in words but I can’t.
I can’t hate you for very long it seems.
But I’m determined on trying to hate you for all the real and for all the imaginary pains you inflict on me. I blame you for both, for both. The pain of your words, the pain of your acts, the pain of your silences I have to fill in with my anguishes and my jealousy. The pain of everything.
And I pray that from now on every time you will hunt or be hunted you will feel a devouring emptiness eating the insides of you, that you will share with me a fragment of my pain. That every kiss will be sour and every laugh will be false. And that you will realize all that and bear its weight alone. Alone. And if you ever ever overdrink again in alcohol, you will go to the devil alone and not burden me with it. Right now, I hate you, I hate these images of you, with all my fierceness. And when you play your stupid games that take all day and all night long don’t send me your tiredness and wariness. I don’t want of them. I don’t want of them. I want to be delivered of this curse. Be alone, fight alone. I’m not your brother anymore.
Laugh of this stupid, childish letter and of my possessiveness. Hate me for it. Be hurt. Love me and admire me for it. I don’t care, I don’t care. I just hope that I’ve shaken you, that I’ve made you taste a tiny bit of my anger. Go to hell.
The next day I wrote her again, a mail called Sea Breeze
I wanted to write you but I couldn’t get started.
I’m afraid of darkness. The same kind of fear I have for heights, for emptiness below. And I’m afraid of the sea, of dark seething waters. I realized that while walking yesterday night by moonlight. A stormwind was starting to brew and I didn’t want to miss the wave crests turning white with foam, shining in the night. I wanted to listen to the wind. But strangely, it was very strong in the village and it almost quieted to a silent whisper in the pine forest. The reflection of the moon on the sea was beautiful away from artificial lights, tiny sparkling silver gems, but I couldn’t be entirely happy as anguishes ate at me.
I often dream of heights, of narrow, sloppy stairs and rising waters. I did last night.
Today we were supposed to take a ferry and land on Corse, but the sea was too strong for boats and so instead we explored the northern ridges of Sardegna. We found a place where two lighthouses were built on huge rock formations where we got lost during hours, climbing rocks going and down narrow places, right above the sea that surrounded us from three sides. The sea was of a deep blue and light blue and turquoise and gray depending where you looked at it, with the traveling shades of clouds and the shining light of a sun concentrating all its radiance in the few spots it could keep away from clouds. The coast was white with the foam of waves crashing on reefs. So much foam that it formed white snowy formations on some beaches that flew away with the wind like snowflakes or white butterflies. The vegetation was silver-green and light green and yellow and brown, covering all the soil it had found and the rocks were gray and brown and pink. It was a feast of colors. A crying melody in the eyes, in the ears.
I still have troubles not to react in anger to some of my parents suggestions. Even though I could take them quietly and peacefully if I thought a little more.
I felt a tremendous tenderness for you during the day. I remembered your smile in *****. Every time I have to smile for a photo I remember it and am able to smile more genuinely. A smile of joy and sadness.
To continue with the curses streak, I wish you to feel how I feel about writing, unable to come up with a single character in over a year. As if it had no more sense.
It pains me to right it.
She replied with a mail called City Breeze where she too offered me some beautiful descriptions and writings, and she cursed me back at the end, wishing I’d feel a gap with people as though as I was there but not truly there
She also remembered some fleeting memories of her childhood, of when she used to play in the garden with the neighbor kids before the divorce and moving several times house
Afterwards she lost the taste of playing in the garden and spent all her summer days reading despite her mother’s encouragement to go out
and she sometimes forced herself to play with her little sister, but it never was as imaginative as she wished for
She told me I was a high tree that caught a lot of wind, but that I was the strength to resist
and she confessed she could not yet come to terms with uniting the two sides of her person, the serious fun loving student everyone knew, and the faerie dreamer part of her, and she told me my troubles to create characters were not a wonder as long as I did not know myself
And she told me to remember being loving with Chantal, as she was the lady of my castle and deserved my love much more than her for now, and not to lock her up in the dungeon when I went to visit the ramparts
A few days later she went out with the boy
and wrote me about it, she had been ecstatic and deeply disappointed
they were so different they almost spoke two different languages
she had liked being in his arms, but he had annoyed her
and she ended her letter in surprise of how her own curse had rebounded on her
And I replied, trying to turn my anger inward
There are different ways to react on anger.
Trying to dismiss it, to find rational reasons not to be angry – to reassure my reason -, to think about other things, get distracted and send the angry emotion in the black hole. Until I have managed to dull this emotion.
Accepting the anger, riding on it like a mighty carrion bird and attacking, attacking, hurting others until I am sure I won’t be hurt in return, or that at least I will have hurt the other more, and that I made it clear that what she does do not hurt me. In this case, for me, anger is related to sadness. For Chantal too. For you it is related to annoyance that someone’s else try to control you, to the fear of losing control over your own life? Different motives, different ways of interacting with anger, but similar final product.
Accepting the anger without turning it against others scapegoats. Against you, against Chantal, against others. That’s the hardest thing to do. I’m not sure I know how to do it. Turning the anger inward. But not in a stifling way that makes me burst and reverse to riding the anger. Rather transforming the anger into something else, by not letting it escape, by concentrating its force, its energy. By accepting to be hurt. Hurt again. Still hurt again. Because it does not matter. Because hurt is untrue. Turning the anger inward and letting it collapse and crumble like the top of a volcano – a submarine one – in eruption.
Are these only pretty metaphors, or is there some truth in them? The balance line is subtle between stifling the anger and accepting it while digesting it. Perhaps it is the same thing even. Perhaps not, but the border between them is very thin.
Things just are as they are. We try to make sense of them, but they just are. Impossible to capture entirely in words or thoughts. At least these things I spoke about.
Sadness seeps from the end of my letter I realize. I could collect the little gray beads, store them in a little recipient or let them fall into the soil and water the earth assuming that they aren’t too bitter. I might have managed to transform anger, and its byproduct is this sadness I poured over in this letter, word after word, bead after bead. And maybe now that I’ve let sadness drip I will be free of it as well. Like a morning shower and a slight breeze can clear a landscape and reaffirm its colors, its contours, its shades. I don’t want this sadness to burden you either. If it does, let it flow, let it flow to the nearby canals, let it flow to the ocean and mingle with the salty waters and drift and dance with the currents and the waves. Let this sadness be joyous and feast on the fishes of the sea, let it explore worlds of undergrounds and flowering meadows and somber caves and reach another land, other lands, like pearls inside shells to be rediscovered, shining in the sun and even without it, perfectly round and smooth to the touch.
I love you.
But I could not hold back my anger for very long, she had told me my anger belonged to the past
and the past was a powerful Maelstrom I needed to learn disentangling from
But anger and fear were still boiling within me, and I wrote her a mail called Madness
I feel like after your No. Restless, anguished. You want me to disentangle, but I can’t. I can’t while being honest to myself. If I am honest to myself, I must live through all these emotions AND share them with you. Every time you say I see you as a love interest but you don’t, it hurts. Rationally it shouldn’t. But I’m not a rational creature. Deep down, if my love was pure of impurities, it shouldn’t hurt me. But my love, albeit so strong and so deep, is not pure of impurities. I am not love disembodied.
I don’t want of your excuses. I wouldn’t want of them even if you were willing to give them to me. All what I want, I need, is your love. But you cannot give it to me, not like I want it. And there is Chantal, sweet Chantal, who completes your harsh love with her tender love. And I love her back, with tenderness. But I’m tired and fed up of this duality – even if I will be happy to speak with her in ten minutes and will have forgotten probably all my grief and anger. I don’t want of this duality. It is not the right thing. I don’t want to write about my internal castle. I don’t even know I have one. It only panics me at the idea of writing about it, because it would be like surrendering to your will, to your view of things.
You are right. The past in a Maelstrom. And now the river is carrying me and tossing me upside down and I can’t do anything about it but suffer and be restless.
You can’t do anything for me, anything. And yet at the same time you can. Even if you can’t, I want you to.
Not everything is connected you write. It’s true and untrue. Mostly untrue. In appearance it’s true, I can go on with my daily life without giving you a thought, do whatever I want. But now I’ve realized it’s not true. I am not truly free. We are entangled, deeply entangled. I cannot be at peace if you aren’t. It is not your fault. We both are learning to disentangle. Me from feeling your emotions. You from putting aside your emotions. It is a balance we are learning to find. And these pieces of madness are helping to do so, as well as your silences and all the other things you do in your life.
I was – am still? – so angry that I couldn’t step a step back and consider all that. I was muddled in it. I still am. I still didn’t read your letter carefully, nor your story. The title of the video you sent me unnerved me. All what contradicts my views distresses me.
I’m sorry. And I’m not. Distressed, mostly.
She had sent me a beautiful imaginative story she had written about the origins of the world she was building
I wrote her again after reading them carefully
I feel quieter.
I still have a restless energy about me, but it’s more positive, more creative maybe.
I read your mail again, more quietly. I first read your story and I loved it, especially the beginning. The fact that you write in Dutch is like a barrier, but I don’t mind it. The beginning gave me shivers. It felt true in a way. Truly true. And even before, I spoke with Chantal. I love seeing her face smiling and impish.
You deserve to be loved as much as she deserves it. Not less. Was that why you felt like crying?
I must go soon.
I love you. Once the storm passes, there’s nothing left but tenderness. You deserve all the tenderness of the world. To be loved entirely. And to feel your heart swell with inspiration. I leave you with this wish.
She then sent me a beautiful song, Shedding Skins by Fia, calling her mail The end of a tantrum
The singer sang of how she had decided to finally surrender to the will of the divine and stop running from the demons inside her head and instead choose to love them and say yes to both shadows and love to finally be alive
And there I thought I was finally done with anger
“Fantôme d’émotions” is a drawing by Chantal Peguiron
You can continue reading this story with the next chapter Dance of Emotions