Dear V,
You don’t really know me and I don’t really know you, at least not in the way I may have dreamed once or twice or, if I can be honest, the way I’ve been dreaming of us for the past few months.
It’s just like me to fall in love with a ghost, an idea sprouted from a photo, a photo captioned with words I can still see sprawled across the screen if I close my eyes hard enough, long enough. You have a way with words, V. You have a way with words I didn’t know I needed or wanted to hear.
I wonder what you’re up to during all this, if you’re home or elsewhere or if elsewhere feels more like home than the home you’re bound to. Do you think about that often? Is home a city, a neighborhood, a family, a friend, a feeling?
My home is me, perhaps not by choice but by process of elimination. Home is not my birth country, not my adopted country, not the three states and 13 cities and home after home after home we once called home on paper. Making a home in people has not worked in my favor.
Home is me, wherever I breathe, preferably outdoors under the sun and in the shadow of a super sequoia. I worry I will no longer feel at home once another body joins me on the grass; our combined shadows will swell and the heat will leave my skin.
In my dreams, this is where we clash: You, cheerful and optimistic and vibrant in nature and me, emotive and cynical and the potential shadow to your light. You see pure beauty where I might smell fraudulence. You see adventure where I often see doom. I prefer to dwell, to unravel and investigate my vulnerabilities. You prefer to shrug the buggers off, to count your blessings and move on. Life is short, apparently. But I need time—I need time, a paper, a pad and my own company without you. Is that okay?
Perhaps we could put together a balancing act and tour the world as equalizers. You bring your head in the clouds and my feet can walk us close to earth. We could run a canine sanctuary built on six acres, plenty of room for my solitude and enough joy, enough life for you. Could it work?
V, I love your way with words, but I worry the words are who I’ve fallen for. It might be time to hear your voice.
—fiza
Prompt from #TheIsolationJournals, a 30-day creativity project to help make sense of these challenging times. Join in!
Write a letter to a stranger—someone imaginary, someone you met once, someone you only know from a distance. Tell them any and everything: when you first noticed them and what has happened since, how you’d like your day to start and to end, or what’s been on your mind. Or tell them a story about a time when something difficult led you to an unexpected, interesting, maybe even wondrous place. You may be stuck inside four walls, but there are no boundaries. Say whatever you want to say, whatever you think they need to hear.