Dear Pen Pal,
I don’t hear words here, and I don’t know the next time I will hear a word. I watch mouths move, staring at invisible syllables, blinking mutely. It all feels made up. It all is made up. An imitation game. He tilts his head, I nod, he points, I bow, he waves. I walk away with my tongue right where I left it. I hear but I don’t listen.
The one voice that I wish were gibberish is the one that talks me to death inside of my head. When your inner voice has no one to talk to, it seems to have the most to say. Isn’t it strange when your words you hear are a surprise? Your voice, allegedly, but not your words, then who is speaking? How does your mind divide the dialogue? Who casts the actors? Which role is mine? Imagine if you had to vocalize your stream of consciousness…I guarantee we would whisper, or scream into a pillow. I ask, can you control your consciousness? The answer has to be yes, no? If not us then who does? Or is my consciousness renegade? And of the stream, can we control the flow? If I cannot pause the tv, or turn the volume off, I must be able to change the channel. I apologize for refusing to say simple things simply, but I process in the abstract.
Essentially, I have formed a habit of attaching significance to everyday moments and happenings that contribute to an overarching narrative that becomes “my life story,” but the narratives that my subconscious writes tends to be negative, pessimistic, and projecting insecurity. Any and all resistance or friction that I face on this escapade becomes a foreshadowed narrative of failure and the feeling of failing becomes tangible, experienceable, and I struggle to cope with the looming disappointment. I have memorized the script of this scene as if it were my favorite sitcom, and when my brain is scrolling channels looking for something to watch, it reruns this drama out of habit.
I am so far from where I want to be it is hard to imagine ever arriving. I pray that the horizon doesn’t fade, that I haven’t manifested a mirage, but dreams do not disappear, that is a misconception, they are erased by the dreamer in a desperate act of self-preservation. But I don’t care to preserve like a canned good. The question that haunts me, me being a serial dreamer, is can only one come true? What if I waste my days pursuing a dream that isn’t my destiny? There is a catalog of movies in my mind, of moments I aim to make memories, but as I hover over the play button, fixedly watching the trailer, I ask myself anxiously, what if I can only watch one? You see the dilemma.
You ask provoking questions in your letter, questions that provoke further questioning. “Do you think you would be offended or hurt by some forms people have of you?” Truthfully, I would be devastated. Their perceptions of me are living embodiments of mistakes I have made, failures to do the right thing, emotional misunderstandings that I was unable to untangle; I am aware that these define me in the heart and minds of those who have known me, humans who I’ve hurt, friends that I love and respect. The pain that I feel lies not in their perception, but in the subtle truths that form the skeletons of their sentiments. I am imperfect and there is no way to rewrite or whiteout the mistakes, but nor would I accept a revisionist history of my humanity. The maturation of my personal character is catalyzed by the scars of shame and guilt, haunting yet incentivizing, encouraging me to be better at every opportunity.
I am a good person, I will never be convinced otherwise, but I am not the best person that I could and should be. I humbly recognize that. In Meditations, Marcus Aurelius says to view injustices that you have done to others as injustices done to yourself. I must respect myself enough to respect my name. My sincerest apology to the injured persons of my past is my promise to strive for self-improvement, so that as I grow, mature, and heal, the world will have the opportunity to interact with the best version of me.
I opened this letter lost in languages, and I want to end this letter immersing myself once more in this thought. The world speaks a language, one that you decipher as you experience life. When you sit down on a plane, when the doors of the metro open, when the waiter approaches your table, you know the script. The tongue tells you less than the context. I don’t know what they are saying but I do. The sounds of the street speak to me. They speak in beeps, honks, the screeching of brakes; I do not need a translator. I am having a conversation in the laundromat, the machines are telling me that water is filling, that the clothes are washing, tumbling, now dry, the door is unlocked, this is what is being said. We know the meaning of these noises. How many languages do we speak? If you speak one, you speak all of them. We are all saying the same things in our equivalent situations. We speak the human language. If a phone rings do I need to try and explain to a foreigner that someone is calling?
There is true beauty in this harmony, in the unspoken system of sounds that unite humanity. The most human sound of them all? The laugh. If you have laughed from your belly then you have laughed in every language. If I could say only one thing ever again, my final words would be a sentimental laugh, maybe a peaceful sigh and a nod goodbye. Who among us would be left to wonder what I meant?
All my love,
Ryan Dube
*Author’s Note*
In Seoul, it became to feel strange to hear noises but no recognizable words. I started to realize that I literally understood the machines more coherently than the humans that surrounded me. I then began to think of the universal languages of the world, and felt that in essence, there may only be one?
A pyramid of ways to support the project:
Thank You Ryan:)
A truly DeLightFul 8:30am read.
"I apologize for refusing to say simple things simply, but I process in the abstract.
Essentially, I have formed a habit of attaching significance to everyday moments."
-RD
Words of a true artist.
Aww Luminesse thank you so much for sharing your feelings! ♥️ knowing that you are reading my words inspires me to write more of them!