Letter #3

My Dearest Anushka,

So; I was born. I was named. And thusly we have our time, a place, and the lead character in this tale.

I do not remember my youth, not in daily flux but in staccato; much like the light of stars in the night sky, my memories are momentary, ebbing and flowing in pin prick clarity; like looking through a tiny keyhole in an attempt to see said memories, shrouded in fog.

You see, Anushka, it was during one of these memories that I both lost and found my ability to speak, and what a power that is. How underrated, ill-used and taken for granted. The uselessness that we speak on such a daily basis is unfathomable. But equally, it is only words that change the course of history.

If you are reading this, and not simply burning each and every letter as they come through your door, I imagine that you disagree with this last sentiment; that words speak louder than actions. Allow me to explain.

Actions speak a million words; no doubt, their effect can resound through history. But how do we arrive at the conclusion to take action? We listen, we talk, we write of our plans, of our intentions. We think. This might be the most powerful. We think.

Maybe it is just me, but I think in words. I collect them and mould them, and eventually they are manifested into action. I don’t believe anybody ever began a painting without thinking, ‘I’m going to paint’.

Now this memory, under lock and key is nothing to me; it is a story of another child, another mother, another tale that has but an effect on me. It may have been lifetimes ago, how could one ever know? Maybe I am alone in my inability to recall anything but a slither of a childhood memory.

This one in particular saw me bite off my tongue.

Perhaps you’ve heard this story before, but I don’t suppose the relevance, or magnitude of it had ever occurred to you. And why should it? It’s a simple tale of a little boy you never knew.

I think that children are highly receptive, it’s scientifically understood that children learn languages better at a younger age, so why should it not be the case that less tangible concepts are developed within the infant’s mind? Once again, this is the birth, the catalyst of a lifetime long before anyone knew it was alive. Is that not what any of this is? A spark in a dark place long before the fire?

I know not the circumstances that led to me falling flat on my chin as a two year old child, tongue inexplicably protruding from my mouth. Brand new teeth cut neatly through the muscle, leaving but a chunk of tongue hanging by thread of flesh. I do know that, able to sew my tongue back on, the doctor’s revealed I would be unable to talk. At best, my speech would be highly defective.

A sensory limb severed from my being at such a young age, and perhaps an inherently defiant nature could only be the reasonable explanation for my love of words and my need to have a voice/to be heard.

And what platform could be better for one that requires to be heard, than a stage.

My sweetest Anushka, I’ve not heard from you in months and I can do nothing but lose hope that I’ll ever hear from you again, yet my letters shall not stop. The show must go on, as they say, for it isn’t my time yet. As much as I have considered it. It isn’t time yet.

I’m yours,


The End

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