Fermina gazed out over the crowd, and with the warmth of nostalgia, introduced Florentino’s final letter at the public release ceremony.
“We’ll never know for sure if he had started suffering the symptoms of Cephalopodum Hideosum before or after writing this, but we can infer from his words relaying his hope for the future that he did not intend for this letter to be his last testament.” And with that, Florentino’s words once again filled the room…
Writing is magic.
And I love how you write. I was just planning the next two months, money-wise, and we’ll have to make it on half of what we were spending per day. The plan is to go to The Fourth Kingdom, then back to Dragon Mountain going climbing and trekking but the summer here just ended and I hope it won’t be that much of a problem. I can hear the storm magnificently warning us that today will be a “stay-in-the-village” day, with its lightning flashing from time to time and its powerful vibrations mixing in my ears with slow pop-rock ballads playing on the radio.
My backup plans are playing the guitar, reading, writing, and last but not least, daydreaming about you, your grin and your skin, your eyes in my eyes.
Writing is thinking on paper. The thoughts are different and you see things from another angle. Writing to a friend, a family member, a lover, is a powerful proof of love. It’s dedicating your time and energy to someone you miss…
I want to spend time with you and in you on the beach and on the rock, through craziness, happiness, nature, pure beauty and awesomeness during the next summer.
Enjoy yourself and the beginning (almost?) of the summer, and send some nice pictures.
Skin to skin under a warm blanket,
After the ceremony for Florentino’s passing, weeks went by and Fermina found herself oscillating between peace and agony. She couldn’t seem to kill the small delusional part of her that expected Florentino to emerge from the jungles, battered, but safe and alive. Even though she knew deep down he was gone, she didn’t want to believe it. She was angry, she was sad and disappointed. She wanted more than anything to just reverse time and go back to the way things were, but she couldn’t do that, so she sat down and wrote to Florentino one last time.
To the Boy Who Used to Write Me Love Letters,
I’ve been trying to make sense of all of this in the way that people like me and you make sense of our experiences: we turn the chaos into a narrative with a beginning, middle, and ending. We write the stories of our lives in a way not unlike most people, except our versions are especially romanticized; we don’t want to believe our lives are only ordinary (for if they were, what would be the point?)
People like us make meaning out of tragic or seemingly purposeless events in our lives to help us feel better. But what in the world is the purpose of you writing me love letters and then dying? What is the moral of the story? I can’t make sense of it.
Maybe the lesson is that we inject meaning into things that shouldn’t mean anything. Maybe we take the narrative too far into fairytale-land for our own good. It’s beautiful to read, the stories we write – it’s poetry! It’s art! – but it’s not real life, and when we write down the stories of our lives, we realize that real life can never measure up to what we have imagined it to be.
“So you want to be in love like the movies.
But in the movies they’re not in love at all!
With a twinkle in their eye, they’re just saying their lines.
So you can’t be in love like the movies.”
The world you wrote for us was never real. But I won’t stop believing in the things that are.