The small letter probably didn’t come unexpected. The dictionary had been contracting ever since the observation that fire doesn’t necessarily warm everysheep that is sitting close by. Some coldness just seems to come from inside, where outside flames can’t expell it, even if you would choose to let yourself be burnt so that closeness would become an option. A thought entered, or perhaps it was a question, and it was mostly sad to think it, let alone vocalize it to the outside. There would have been multiple ways to continue the letter, we felt stuck in the options of what the next sentence should be.
We didn’t choose to write option one.
Nor option two.
Perhaps we should just make a joke and be done with it?
Out of the black and blue an eight year old message fell on somesheeps door. It talked about the gift of being able to temporarily but at the same time completely fold yourself over another, like carbon paper, see-through in its existence, with the feel of the thinnest woven cotton, and from that position draw the contours in order to see the other and understand the point of view of the other. And if time was folded together it was somehow exactly how we felt and were gifted, perhaps being made in the image of that other, not sure if it was us under that veil, where our paper would contain letters, in contrast to the one of this other sheep that was not us. She was mostly and bestly understood in silence, she always said. But that’s not us at all. On our paper letters would hug together, forming words like powerless, and the word very would precede it. We also read painful, pushed forward by the word extremely. We read sad. That word didn’t need pushing. Where our paper differed was that -perhaps as a primal survival mechanism- we felt compelled to give words to it, to out it, because then it would almost literally be ‘out of us’.
Sheep understood his written word so much better than his wordless, formless thoughts and while writing he discovered the hidden, that thing that was actually bugging him. It was as if on paper he would finally mold into that shape with which he could completely coincide, as if that was his mirror, not one that with bad lighting and wrinkels would condemn him to his unstoppable increasing age, but one that would reflect the real him, embodying timlessness.
And when the birth was over, the book closed, the words were pushed out and finally the letter could continue with the best option, which was the unuttered sad thought that turned out to be more a question to us than to the one we posed it to.