Letter #1
Dear Mei,
When the sun sets through the window, life restarts. I have yet to go to the recording studio for the last song of my album. The sun is magical here; I wish you could see it. I wish you could live the sunset with me—just you and me, together within this fleeting moment.
If you were here, we’d be drinking coffee together. We’d get drunk together. We’d climb the walls of the infinite together. The album is a masterpiece, unlike anything I’ve ever attempted. It’s called Life as Rebellion. I poured not just my heart and soul into it but my very being. There’s a slight dance at the outset, at the prospect that I might win a Grammy. Does that make me happy? I could cross this off my bucket list. I’ve chased this dream like mad—like an addict, like a gambler, like the rush of the crazy city. Modernity, huh? It’s splendid, yet we lose our soul in it. Every day of my 20s, I dreamed it, I breathed it. It was all I ever wanted, and still, I refuse to back down: nothing less than perfection. The studio is set in the tallest building in the world, and the view is marvelous. I see skyscrapers everywhere; they remind me of myself—always aiming high. I fly back to New York tomorrow. You told me to write to you once I settled, and here I am, writing to you again. It’s been a few months since we parted ways. What strange months they were—trying to find true living without a soul to complete it, if you know what I mean. The body needs refuge, a shelter. Sometimes, I pity myself; why did I leave? The dream of becoming myself has always been etched into my very cells, but I suppose it’s still a work in progress. Mei, what are dreams, really? Mei, the sun is setting quickly. What will remain of it? Just some shimmering light, dreams?