My name is not Mister Miyake, but I am called in to all of this because of the recent black-outs. I found a letter that you sent recently. Without further introduce who I am not, I want to read this letter to you as if it were mine. Because I know that only then you can read it.
‘Hey, you. Photographer! I am ready!’
‘Dear Miyake. Can I trust in your friendsh’
‘Dear Miyake. Can I trust in your friendsh [..] that this letter won’t close any doors?’
‘Will you also keep me from leaving’
‘you by opening up my worded fence’
Pfff… this will take us a lifetime, if we have to write all this stuff down. Can’t we do it differently? Must we really use all these post its to let the words stick to Potamotrygorgeous? Can’t we just go back in time and actually hear what was written?
I will give it a go and pretend like it was my story that I showed confession sheep. Here I go!
‘Dear Miyake, can I trust in your friendsheep that this letter won’t close any doors? Will you also keep me from leaving you by opening up my worded fence?’
‘I trust that you are familiar with somesheep just expressing instead of interacting and that no reply is necessary or wanted? That just looking at a word painting is enough for the artist? Because no reply will ever be good enough, you know that, right?’
‘I ramble, I know. Even I cannot understand myself, while it should firstly be me who does, since I am my own word artist. How then can I ever fathom what you think of all this, if I barely understand my own brain?’
‘What if all we have between us is words and distance? Every misunderstanding leads to another gapping, gaping and huge alienation between me and other. And in that gap I am now, falling without gravity.’
‘Have I failed you, by not appearing on the guest list? Will you lie to me if it’s a yes?’
‘You have not seen me writing you in this mood ever since we got married. I always chose not to let you see this. Will you accept me as your second bridemäh? Will you accept this monster black side of me? Will you treat it as your cute and sexy black monster? Will you drape me in fuchsia and then whipe the blood from my eyes?’
‘Will you make me stop crying and be the perfect person to understand all this? Will you tell me you were present when authenticity and loneliness gave birth to themes like boundary respecting, nurturing souls and choosing battles wisely? Will you promise that you will lie to me and make me believe that you don’t see the difference between normal-me and this-me?’
‘Did you hear it yourself, Miyake? Or did security blab? Things broke. And then I cracked. Open this time. It reminded us of the clams that mirr talked about. He wanted us to be a seal and glisten, remember that, Miyake?’
‘Will you regain our sanity again? When can we fuchsia-out instead of black? You thought you were lucky to have us? Did you ever think so highly of yourself that perhaps you would turn it around? It is you who never left us, remember?’
‘Will you hold me, tonight, Mister Miyake? And shut me up? And stroke my flat hair? Will you not mind my swollen-because-of-crying-for-days eyes? Will you take me outside for a walk, Adidas meets Nike style (thanks for sponsoring, by the way), because you don’t give fucks for how you look? Will you lie to us and swear that being dead is not painful and lengthy at all?’
And then confession sheep spoke.
‘Shut your ears, little sheep.’
Confession sheep stroked.
‘I am here with you, regardless of who you are.’
Confession sheep stayed.
‘In sheep we trust.’