A letter
from somewhere far away
Dearest Yul,
I have arrived.
I thought to write you on the journey but couldn't. You must understand that I tried. I was too anxious, too afraid of what I might say or what might happen whilst I wrote—you know how I get and the things that trouble my mind—and so I simply could not, or found when I tried that I was unable. Once, when I sat in my cabin and made to speak, I could do nothing to make the words appear, the page holding only my tears.
But now I am here. That part of this is over and I am here, writing you now with this letter. This first letter, for this is day one—that is what I’m calling this, not labelling the day that I left as such, that day being so long ago that it has begun to lose itself entirely, like it drifts from my body as the blood of each month. Does it feel like this for you, or is it still the same? Do I remain frozen, perched upon the horizon, or does the ship instead turn and drift back?
Do you understand what I mean when I say this? Do you, Yul? I do not know if you do, and such thoughts plague me like wraiths.
I wish I could hear you speak. All I hear is this pen and the sound of the waves that lap without tiring. I have taken board by the shore, within a house of wanderers, their faces as different as their names, their skin as marble or onyx or glass, each with a tongue that holds the mystery of their homes. This city stands as a conflux of peoples, of traders, of exiles, of the abandoned and newlyfound. It is a vast city, Yul, vast and strange, with insects so large they speak in sounds I cannot understand, or perhaps they are ones I am unwilling yet to learn. I see some who speak to them, to the tallest and most upright of their kind, exchanging clicks and movements, twitches I cannot bear to read.
It is all so foreign, Yul. Not the foreign as once we spoke, the foreign that comes of places we could reach if we walked far and long, for two moons or more, not stopping until our feet became raw. That kind of foreign is still close. Yet this … this kind of foreign is one that is true, one that I cannot explain in so few words as here I have written. In time I will try, because how else will I let you know that I am here? How else will you believe me?
Will you ever believe me, Yul? Will you ever trust me again?
—.
P.S.
Hello. Happy 2026.
New year, new writing.
And by “new writing” I simply mean new writing because there hasn’t been enough writing here and the intention is for that to change.
In unpacking boxes of books in our new home, I leafed through the joys of Jeff VanderMeer’s Wonderbook, which truly is a wonder book, full of tips, exercises, interviews and ideas from and for all manner of writers. Something in there was an inspiration for this, something I've long wanted to read but never have. For the life of me I could not locate it, but I knew it was in there somewhere.
Well, you can’t see the long minutes I just spent searching, but I found it: Leena Krohn’s Tainaron: Mail from another city. Have you read it? It must have been lodged in a distant part of my mind, because reading about it just now I note that the story involves a city with insects that talk! So onto the TBR pile it goes.
It's good to have you back, Nathan. Looking forward to more of you in 2026!
Ahh, as late as I am to this piece Nathan, I am so glad to find you, and this beautiful curiosity in my notifications again!
I notice Kimberly already looked up the name Yul, so no need to mention just how brilliant that was, it was though, very, conscious or otherwise; youth, beyond the horizon, not to mention the origins and my favourite line "It is all so foreign, Yul. Not the foreign as once we spoke, the foreign that comes of places we could reach if we walked far and long, for two moons or more, not stopping until our feet became raw" all of that in one huge contented sigh... breathtaking!
I still write letters whenever I find an excuse and time being kind... I love that it is still a possibility, that I can still queue for hours and buy a stamp!