My dearest John…
It’s been a long time since I ran in the street. Even when I’m late, I only take awkward, purposeless steps. I’m a poor excuse for that person who was able to sneak away while her parents took their afternoon nap, run three blocks to the shaved ice stand, buy the biggest shaved ice, eat the whole thing and run back all under 5 minutes. And it’s been even longer since “I ran with two childish legs, like a gazelle, jumped over the creek, and got far from home”… I don’t mean the sheer act of running, jumping, and getting far, but the spirit of the deeds that force within that obliges you to run with such euphoric joy until muscles start to ache. That spirit that makes you run, not caring if others are staring at you. Not caring because your lungs are burning, gasping for air as you run and your eyes see nothing else around you.
There was a time when I was enough for myself. I was enough and I was happy. Happy with myself and my imaginary friends. To be honest, even now I try to make due by myself, but in a serious and dry way, not even in a sorrowful way… As if I and myself are two humans who coexist respectfully and peacefully and don’t feel the need to be either very happy or very sorrowful for one another. As if we sometimes look at the past when we were many more than two Matins… The top student Matin, the shy Matin, the Matin who narrated poetry at school, the Matin who snuck into the shower and shaved her legs for the first time without permission from her parents, the Matin who hid her tamarinds in the closet, the Matin who biked eight hours a day, the Matin who biked all the way to the beach one day and had fruit flavored ice cream cone for 50 Tomans, the Matin who, on a cloudy day, put on her yellow raincoat with the pink baby chick on it and went to the beach to catch some fish with a strainer, and caught nothing but one small dead fish…
All these Matins were replaced by two Matins: the inside Matin and the outside Matin. Their difference is that the inside Matin wears pajamas, leaves her hair down, and watches Friends all night, and the outside Matin wears lipstick, ties her hair back and her soul smells like a corporate gray suit. It’s obvious something’s wrong with me, isn’t it?
Why do I write these things to you John? Why are my first words to you after such a long time not simply hello and greetings? Because we are one soul trapped in two bodies. One sould that would find any ordinary greeting an insult. Wouldn’t it be preposterous if I were to write to you: “Hi my dear, how are you? I have missed you. How is everything?” And you would write back: “I’m so happy to find you. I’m fine. How are you.” Wouldn’t that be ridiculous?
The truth is, all the ramblings I started this letter with (which I am sure you will read carefully), all these things would be communicated in a long gaze at one another, a gaze known only to us, where we to meet in person. And I know that I don’t even have to state the obvious this much, but I can’t help it, I’m drunk.
I wish you a happy new year, and myself a happy Yalda. I wish you a Genie from the magic lamp. Wish me serenity and love.
I kiss your shoulders; Mat