The truth reveals Itself in our dreams. But I was unable to determine your face. My response to your letter, demoiselle;

So earlier I had breakfast with my family. The simplest things bring me pleasure... and the more I detach myself the simpler things get. Dad's friends from work went hunting and brought a sizable cache of venison. They gave some of it to him. We had one of our rare conversations last night while he was dressing the meat and washing the rich blood out of it. The last time I'd seen anything so reminiscent of humanity and life in general was more than ten years ago. The terrible highway accident, you recall. Life is so tenuous that in every moment possible we must strive to achieve the greatest good and benefit the most number of people. And so he was going about the business of marinating. We had no other beer in the house but the last pair of Guinness that was mine. His courtesy is of the noblest degree that he doesn't mention it, but rather opts to "bistek" the venison instead. In my own manner I opined that since a decent red was the only real choice to have it with, the beer would've spoiled the spirit in preparation.

I sat down with my family to breakfast, thinking that we hadn't done this in such a long span of time, maybe even as long as a year. We were able to talk without wandering to last night's arguments, or politics, or work, or anything else that would've tainted with pretense or pessimism. I was happy with everything. Point of fact, shortly after settling the morning's affairs with London I had it in me (and the god-awful traces of an accent) to leave you a message. Ah, but well it was an apology of some sort, for the umpteenth time.

Was there any real meaning to her threats, when she said: are we meat?  no hurt or rebuilding of walls? if you go distant on me again i will nuke you.

I appreciate your kind offer, but I would like to enjoy the rest of my stay in this one (this turn at samsara, this present incarnation) without the vagaries of lying, cheating, stealing, murder or what have you on whomever’s platter. I miss you even more, Princess Who Twitches. But it is not given to me to press and press inconsolably for what I want. If I want to hear the song from a nightingale who has found warmth and solace in that part of my house where it shares residence with cheer and laughter, can I demand it at a moment’s notice? The same pertains to you, kia. I can only let you know that I want these things but the finality of which is solely your decision. And I could never break my silence, but as long as you know that this house is also yours. The wonders of each room and the objects therein open to you at all hours. In total consumption of your willingness to share my company I forget one rather important detail.

And the faintest reminder of which: do you realize the culmination of everything i have been working on since last semester is THIS weekend?

You have always been in our prayers. Even in the odd-even neglect of a chance that you have been missed in the daily devotion, those in dreamtime cajole me into repairing my duties. And inviting you into one of the gardens. Where we can discuss with fervor your concerns and mine. And ours. I cannot make demands upon your time, and so patiently I implore your avatr to refresh your thoughts, and guide your actions. And bring you back to me when everything is settled. At last we have found our space. In observance of the vigil, with fingers crossed I remain Yours,

Herein I signed my birthname, the one granted to me by the dark-haired sister.

It has arrived without warning ... The rambling of a madman possessed by illness.
THE MORNING AFTER THE FIRST EVENING:

It's been some three years since I first set foot here, and I could never take the change of seasons gracefully. All sorts of illnesses would gang up on me, and my body would suffer these horrible convulsions. And the timing never fails to amaze me with its tenacity.  The older people would say that I invested so much of my chi expended in my devotions that it is this palpable lack that I am suffering now. But that's hardly possible, since I cannot recall anything so huge an endeavor that would bring me to such a state. But what do I know? And that particular theory can be so easily explained with coincidence. I really don't think that Fate (or any of its more alien permutations) have anything to do with this present surfeit. The more times it comes back to strike, the more I think it has to do with dreamtime. Please, let me explain later when I am feeling better. I wrote about this sometime ago, and the piece rather elucidates quite beautifully what I undergo. 
(The first mention of “The Illness of Thirteen Days”). 

Her name has been stricken for several reasons.

If only for the strong-willed and adventurous who crave novel experiences, I would like you to see how it affects me. The worst dreams ever so real reach out from the veil of the realm of weave and coax reality to spin out of axis. My body undergoes the worst horrible expulsions; that once, last year the Autumn consort (who possessed the most morbid sense of romanticism, ala Vampire Muyo and Bride of Frankenstein to a lower, abysmal degree) stayed by my side so she could have front-row seats. "Almost like an exorcism", she purred while the seizures hit with accuracy. I realized then, in the turmoil of my body almost giving up its spirit (and her furious scribbling by my head): that life is rationed to us in bite-sized pieces; so that if we cannot finish what tiny morsel is entrapped in one's feverish maw the rest remains free of taint. Have you ever seen anybody trapped in a convulsion? Admittedly, I find it very intriguing, as a particularly sanguine vehicular mishap when one passes something by; the human psyche is drawn to such symptoms of mortality. But not when the horror is experienced (or forced upon) one's own body. I would never think of sharing this with a stranger. Only that I hope you would not find things amiss if our correspondence is interrupted within the next few days. It would be for the best of reasons why I’ve become inaccessible.

She extends the question: I wish I understood what you want.

Apologies, confusion, and wishes. You've surprised me with a pleasant surprise. In the beginning when I was at a loss, when the excitement of finding someone I could share ideas unequivocally over something so tenuous as my far-fetched ideas and skewed sense of overwrought writing; when previous real-life and/or ethereal friends have not been able to understand - you came through. And more importantly, that you have stayed.

An older conversation is cited. 

"It's not that I need you, but what I want from you".  I've always kept this in mind. And smaller island of convention and personal politics have found their way into our hearts. You could hardly be this aggressive without a reason. But clarification of several things would definitely aid my heretofore lack of comprehension. Following: You know what you want, and you've a fair sense of direction in things that concern you. Later you reveal to me that you've achieved the sense of self-balanced, and that whether yin or yang - you've got it all under control. Personally, my chi might be tainted. One of those minor influences that does not find a solid explanation in casual discussion. But I digress.

The pooka nature arises. I'll try to stop pestering you with questions.  I am an inquisitive creature, can't help it.  A smile to punctuate the matter.

I spoke too soon, and here's the retraction. I'm curious about you too. But do you know how long it took for me to resume the lost Accord, the mantle of attempting to be human once more? Either we're long-winded or it's misplaced embarrassment. At rare times I want to reach out to you, and hope that you're there. But the moment your doppelganger comes on I find myself fumbling and at a loss.

Mawkishness and other improper material excepted.

And at other times, the sense of decency I've been instilled with prevents me from extending you the same courtesy and leave off from invading your space and privacy. I'm a very private person, and what's worse is that I cannot seem to break out of being aspected to yin. Introspective and quiet. And I can hardly help it if I'm not too good with seemingly inane and false repetition of the nearing holidays.

She closes. I am so sad that i missed your fuzzy mood.

Don't worry - it'll come back (just as soon as I get better, yes). I have more good dreams than bad. 
And I talk in my sleep, too. I want to share these things with you. 
I wish we weren't so distant. Sometimes I think if I were next door 
I'd come over  just so I could see your smile 
and have a word with you.
And maybe a movie.
And maybe even tea.

soui,
Herein I signed my birthname 

A MOMENT OF LEVITY AS CLOUDS LIFT.
Her name has been stricken.

My last words on the yearly harrowing, before the formal closing: By point of fact I knew intrinsically that it was not a physical illness I was being thrashed with. Rather my spirit underwent a catharsis of unusual proportions. That my body could hardly take anymore of it. 

A gentleman’s honest estimation.
You possess such a curious nature that I find it hard not to comply. It was not with a clear head that I read your last missive, I have it somewhere.

The defense against mundane verbatim.
Surely the unusually rigid coincidence cannot be discounted. But yes, I resign from wanting to understand the yearly possession. After which, my skin shines and becomes smoother. My eyes have flecks, as if the irides had broken into slivers during the strangling fits. The hair on my head becomes sleeker, like an animal to be hunted. I lose all sense of taste and keep to the most basic nutrients for the next few days. When I was younger I spoke in voices. Surely these unnatural symptoms cannot be discounted.

The antics of a tanzartiste.
…if that image doesn't make you laugh and cheer you up i don't know what will. I do hope you aren't too dignified to be silly.

I appreciate you. I appreciate you telling me these things. It helps bring us closer, makes us less inhuman and idealized. And closer to pragmatism and truth. This is the sum of this body’s afflictions: Sitting up hurts everywhere, so I need to lie down and stay down and continue my devotion. I hope you didn't mind so much that I came back late and so unfocused. Don't mind me. Ace that exam. No more drama, eh? How do I say with empathy that I'm glad that you had so much fun even though I was hardly there when all of it happened? Know that I'm glad.
Understanding will come. I should've kept to myself about the whole affair. Now, before I lose my breath.

I had to stop and get medicine, so the delay. And you've gone. And of course things are already jumping at me at work. Aside from the headache, fever, hunger that I have to contend with. The last code that I wrote for the permanent collection was compromised, that is to say, it's gone cyrillic, that is - it's all tumbled and turned to crap, totally unusable. I have to be present tomorrow (and freshly scrubbed) when the Doctor interviews Myungah, an artiste of supreme skill. Ah, the last few days before the seasonal holiday. You still have to write papers? The cure, as we've known it from the start: Gaiman and Miller, not so much Miller as all the Gaiman one has in one's own personal library. An illness of the spirit, contracted in the waking world - cured in dreamtime. Have you read any Gaiman of late? I'll be lying down and getting up, since my sub's left for the day (I thought I'd tough it out, and trying my darn'dest to recover things to their naturally compulsive sense of order. What are you about by the early evening?
Nothing will please me more if I were to hear from you.

APPENDICES:
1. “the terrible highway accident”, from the second paragraph: 
The full account of which is contained in an earlier letter, not included here for purposes of brevity.

2. “are we meat?” – the noun in question is a small inside joke 
that she and I use to replace the word “good”.  The origin of which is culled from an older principle: Meat is good.

3. “The Illness of Thirteen Days”, the first recorded account of the yearly harrowing. The full text is available upon request.

4. This article was referred to as ( diaboli  suspire,  a visit from the infernal ) but the earlier records prove otherwise. 
The original title has been restored. 

Siddharta Somar.
Poet. Madman. Very sick guy.
Copyright owned by author, 14 December 1999 | back to Reach For the Sun | main site Zero Sum