to my beloved, Dylan Thomas.
Today, I read a poem of yours and it made me cry; "I Have Longed To Move Away".
Both being passionately attached to life and madly running away from it fit so nicely into the verses of a poem, Dylan. Every time I come face to face with you, I hear the words you say and get lost in the meaning of it. Reading the lines you write is like wavering between the two ends of life. The ends are so far apart, that's exactly why they're so close, Dylan. Your words, they are like a complete experience of otherness to live by feeling: I am outside of myself, I am thrown toward the thing that I love. It is also an experience of returning to my source, to a place that does not exist in space, to my homeland. Then, beloved, it becomes both terra incognita and the house in which I was born; it becomes both unknown and recognized.
So I want to talk to you, taking this poem between us, Dylan. I see that, like every heartfelt person, the falseness of the world has made you tired. This is the inevitable end of every incorrigible romantic. (Please don't make fun of me, but it looks familiar to me). I know why you want to move away. (Or so I think ı know, what difference does it make). Maybe you're doing it by sleeping off, with drunk, or with poetry, or anything, it doesn't matter. In any case, you need to turn your face away from this world in order to “really live”, to be real, and to stay real, Dylan. I see in your words that in order to exist, you must also disappear. Both of them (all of them) are born in unity, from a state of melting in a crucible, give birth to it, and are born by it. But once you realize this, it is important what you will do in the projection, because your words have already been broken in the glass of longing.
“And the old terrors' continual cry, Growing more terrible as the day,” you said. When you've only heard it once, don't those continual cry become impossible to escape? Would it be enough to pretend to be deaf, Dylan? It seems to me that it has always been disturbing to hear these cries because behind every crying there seems to be a suicide letter for people who don't know how to close their ears. You know you can't close your ears, but you can leave. Besides, is there anything better than leaving? You pick yourself up and go on the road, if it's not happening, you let yourself go and keep going. But it is still scary, isn't it? A person can also commit suicide by living, Dylan? Why not. Aren't you already a "living suicide" on your own? Like those before you and those after you. Because it takes courage to do otherwise. Because a person needs all her courage to die at the twenties, Dylan. Some people can't die in their twenties, they write poetry as a suicide method. Like those before you and those after you. Already you said, "I have longed to move away but am afraid." You are right. What is the point of a life devoid of affectivity, echoing on the walls? God created a supernatural limbo to trap some souls. Remaining in limbo between life and death hurts some people, like you Dylan. These people, Dylan, have only one desire in their souls that excites them; to feel. Always feeling more. Feeling, rather than just living. Feeling whole life is in the palms of their hands, in the all vibrations of desire, and out of the old lie. Does this desire make a person have been a faithful companion with death, Dylan? I think yes. But the basic essence of living with such intense feelings is causing a person to lose interest in his/her environment, and that ultimately brings loneliness You are moving away but how are you going to get rid of yourself? You can't. That's why you write and turn your face to the whole world. For this reason, the lines “I have longed to move away From the repetition of salutes,” have found a place for themselves in poetry. Loneliness begins with moving away from salutes. Even a salute becomes unbearable. For a person who dares to return to himself, loneliness is an inevitable and common phenomenon. I am not talking about a social loneliness here, this loneliness is more based on existing in one's own truth by alienating the other. To sum up, my dear Dylan, you are a crazy but excellent poet who gives back to life more than you took from life. You have the ability to blend a deep engagement with language, a sense of the mystical and the everyday. Therefore you solidified your place in my heart, Dylan. Unfortunately, even after your death, you don't know how much you are loved, and you still spend your birthdays alone.
I'm at the end of what I have to say, Dylan, and my wine too. And you? Really, I wonder where you were when you wrote this poem, what were you thinking? Were you drunk? Maybe... I will be almost happy even in your loneliness. Literature makes me selfish, forgive me. Lastly, I do not know whether you drink eighteen straight whiskies or not but I hope that there are more where you are gone. May your soul abide with love in the vast agony of eternity…
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