You asked me if I had to burn to be a writer, Sunny.
The answer is, I do.
Of course it is not the only answer, but at least a preliminary one.
I can make art without suffering, but only if I am not alone, only if I can share and lighten my pain with another soul.
Which is you, of course.
Which must be you, of course, because I promised to be yours till I die will all my life and love and smile and joy and happiness and fear and anxiety and anger and sorrow and grief and sadness and wounds and screams, if you can accept that, of course.
I want to be yours with this and everything next I must weather through, but before I walk forward with you I must take you backward with me, back, more back, more back and more till before I was even destined to exit.
I cannot show you my future for I know it not, but I can and I will show you the past of my mentors I will never meet, but who will always echo in my soul.
Their story is theirs, of course, but the thread of artistic pride, legacy, and pain connecting us remains the same, as it has over the millennia since when we humans started introspecting our existence.
We humans are all diverse and different, but we are all of one, behind the curtains we are all one.
And, that, my dear Sunny, is how I know the fates of which who come touch my soul.
And, on a side note, that is how I know we are one, that the person you love the most and the person I love the most is one piece of art admiring another piece of the same art.
Thank God I exist.
Ah, apologies.
Allow me to test your patience no longer and tell you about the ones who came before me.
Remember the cute blue art on the cover of my Kindle? The one with the sweet white flowers you can feel enough to almost smell its sweet scent if you allow yourself to get lost in it?
It is Almond Blossoms painted by Van Gogh, a man who died with more pain than a man should be able to carry.
He was checked into an asylum just like I was, but unfortunately unlike me, he couldn’t convince them that he would be ok.
So he spent his remaining days imagining joy on the canvas he painted on.
He could only sell 1 painting when he was alive, and now they sit in Louvre, perhaps the greatest art gallery to ever exist in the modern world.
You may not find it very interesting to see his masterpiece, but his paintings open doors in hearts you don’t even know existed.
I miss you even more than I can endure, and I can endure a lot.
- Franz Kafka
Kafka was also a writer like me, Sunny.
He wrote a story about a transformed human into a spider, the one I told you I like because it was so ridiculous.
He was also the doll guy, by the way.
The man was a huge introvert just like you, and like me he wrote letters to his sweetheart, letters that earn so many shaking, romantic sighs today.
Do you think they named Kaiju Kafka after this Kafka, Sunny?
One day when I die, I want our child to open a corner cupboard and by overwhelmed by the stash of paper that pours out, be overwhelmed by the love and the madness and the beauty of this insane love I have for you, and this love that heals and burns my heart.
Coming back to the point (don’t be angry now, I will play Genshin with you after this) both these artists died poor and unknown and artists with no audience.
If art actually paid the artist, they might not have died the sad lives they lived.
They are considered the world’s greatest, Sunny, but only after they died.
Despite their art they died broke.
Do you love me enough to live with a great but unknown artist like me, to die broke with me, to die a sad, mortal death and become a tragic, immortal story?
You asked me why I was worried about not having readers after just one year; I am afraid because I know what happens with artists as insane as me.
Be positive is a sad man’s painkiller, but artists don’t take painkillers or even treatments.
I am not doomed to a life of pain, of course, if you can have the patience to wrap me strongly in that gentle, warm hands of yours each time I die, to wipe my tears each time I cry, to watch me ache each time I write, I shall be glad to be yours by flesh as I already am yours by my soul.
I know you hate pain, but can you love me more than you hate pain?
I wrote this by the light of my phone torch but I want to use a candle next time.
Will you hold the candle even as it drips on my hands as they fly across the page, will you bring me lemonade after it and hold me as I tell you why I think it is my best piece yet?
Will you, Sunny?
Please?
From forever yours
P.S.- Remember how I asked what my name is today, the name of my soul, the one I must protect from faes and angels and devils?
I still don’t know if it is Riya or Aurora or Eliza, but I do know that yours is Sunny.
I only know me who calls you Sunny so often, I think even you might have forgotten your nickname at times before meeting me, but the love, the yearning, the sincerity I call you this name with, the name of your soul is Sunny.
May God forever watch over the soul who bears this name, and tear and burn and sacrifice my soul and use its pieces to stitch your torn soul and save yours till Aurora becomes one within Sunny.
Reflections