Letter #17 (or, The smell of promise)

Ale,

that is what life does, isn’t it? It pushes back to the everyday things, to the cyclical unroll of day after day. And solace can be a movie, or a videogame, or a book.

Isn’t that what we did? We grew up with myths of heroes that can fly and playing games, and dreaming of being astronauts. Life had the smell of promise and untapped potential. Then you grow up and they tell you that no, you cannot be Batman, and you should probably get a job. And day after day the color vanishes a bit more, just enough not to realise it is getting dark.

Some of us fight it quietly, a silent revolution; we still love the movies and the books and the games, because in the world that unfolds in our minds, we’re the same heroes that we see on screen, that we move with a joypad.

The Inherent Vice, in this life of ours, is that it ends without marvel.

But enough with the sad thoughts! It must be a very small place the one you’re in if you’re bumping into Erika that often. Or maybe destiny has a strange way of playing, and you have to talk with her again. Time has passed indeed, and if she hasn’t recognised you so far, I doubt she’ll ever will. So my suggestion is, next time your paths cross: talk to her.

But for the love of God, don’t tell her the whole story. From her point of view, you might seem a creepy stalker with a morbid interest for her past.

Which, my friend, wouldn’t be far from the truth – creepy part aside.

So here’s my challenge to you; bring back some marvel into our life, Ale. Talk to her, the closest representation on a villain that we have. You’ll be living that movie, and I’ll be watching it, sure to root for you.

A presto,

D.

 

 

 

 

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