Late that night I found it impossible to get back to sleep. My body was sweaty, and so seemed to be my mind… somehow… if that makes sense. I walked out of the house and of course the whole place was deserted. The forlorn streets painted in a spooky yellowish light hid no more than silence and coldness. It was better to be there, it seemed to me, among the smelly trash, the erratic sound of a siren all over, and the piece of paper right before me. That turned out to be a letter and I seemed to recognize to whom it was addressed. Why was it written on purple paper? Why did it look like a kid’s handwriting? Why did it talk about all that? Why didn’t I just dump it somewhere? Why did I keep thinking about it after I read it? If I’m not wrong, the letter read:
“To Q. Jaxon, C. Keller, A. Romero, Austin W., D. Monroe, P. Coast, D. Marvin, J. Fanz, L. McCree, and the others
You’re no saints, and neither am I anyway. We’re just the same, aren’t we? It’s just that it seems utterly different when it comes to you: strong, vigorous Greek gods of voluptuousness loving each other wholeheartedly. They’ve told me no one should ever trust you all as to understand what the intimacy of love is all about, but I’d rather think you’re a sweet start. I know –or think I know– the whole business; it’s just the ruse of contemporaneity, after all: do your thing and get paid. Some of you even learn during the process. And who will ever blame you? I eat too.
Yet amongst you, there are the ones who so sweetly feign the deepest of human pleasures, and let me tell you, my body and mind are thankful, deeply thankful. Of course, sometimes a part of me can’t help flying away from such worldly joy. It is then when I start thinking about every single thought you have before going to bed at night,
about every single second in your lives outside the studio,
about every single place where you secretly take shelter from monotony and monsters,
about the way your luscious sleep slowly fades away at sunrise,
about the miracle of every one of your cells in your body: working, dying and coming back to life every now and then as to keep your breath in the same world I breathe, however far away.
I once told an old school chum that things would be way better if men, instead of fighting wars as much as they do nowadays, could be enamoured of each other’s virtues and passions, each other’s cultures and mysteries, languages and experiences, demons and angels.
I’ve heard some of you are anthropologists, or dancers, or “plain” models;
I’ve heard some of you are quite young, whereas others enjoy their maturity;
I’ve heard that though you’re good at your thing, that doesn’t mean you’re truly happy;
I’ve heard some of you really love what you do and that’s your true passion;
I’ve heard some of you have departed this life for reasons I’ll never get.
And that’s what’s great! Can you see it?
It’s not in the façade of bodies where the deepest of pleasures lie, but in the harmony of brotherly spiritual connection and in the everlasting perfection of imperfection.”
I got back home soon after the cold wind took it off my hands. Lucky I remember every single word.