The Debt of the Final Touch

You are surely an extraordinary writer. And yet, I have come to understand—it is a difficult thing, to present oneself beyond one's own experience, what one has gained, one's flaws, what one has lost, one's failures...beyond all of that.

I think you will never be able to write anything with me in mind. Most likely, after I have departed from this world, you will write your first piece about me.

Believe me, there exists an invisible power in human feeling. When the hunger of this feeling is sated, there arrives an unfulfilled awareness—which one can bring back into one's own creation.

There is a difference between understanding oneself and speaking of it—I only spoke, while you taught me to stop.

Even wanting to take on the responsibility of understanding, those people who have crossed half a century of this life scatter about restlessly, their eyes dimmed, weary as they pass time in the excuse of fate. Among them, I did not see you—my gaze was held fast by your clarity.

Forgive me—I am that cruelest of persons, how many times did I touch you at each goodbye...and yet, I surrendered myself in dialogue that ended in failure. Keep yourself well.