An Unexpected Letter

30May07

Once upon a time a girl somewhere in a little town called Springfield received an unexpected letter. The letter started with the same words as the first sentence of this story and upon reading it a second time she could only confirm that the writer of this story was right. “It must have been a smart writer, knowing what the first sentence was of this letter I received” she taught by herself and her mind was already creating an image of the writer, sitting behind his computer, typing, thinking. She figured he probably had a glass ball next to him to which made it possible for him to see the future and know for example what the first sentence of the letter in her hand was going to be. The writer probably looked like the mixture of a strong man with a lost soul and some kind of computernerd with a gently touch. He was chaotic for sure since she knew that all the authors she liked so much where constantly in this disorganised state of mind. Another probability she could bet money on was the fact that the desk was filled with papers with notes, drawings, pictures, books and electronic gadgets…

“Three dots, how odd. Just now that I was expecting the start of a big story. A burst of words filled with flowers, love and chocolate with nuts. Why did I type 3 dots???” A little curse escaped from the writers mouth and filled the silent room, got smashed against a wall and died as a silence. Ashamed of his cursing the author looked around to see if anybody in the room noticed his cursing too but there was nobody around. He had to focus again. Find back that storyline he had in his head when he woke up this morning. He could remember bits and pieces of it but the link between it all was gone. Vanished together with the stars. He felt 3 dots comming up again but he had to resist. He had to….
“Aaarrgh, there you do it again. What are people going to think now when they read your story. You’ll go into history as the “3Dots Author”. Is that how you want people to know you! Is that what you want to tell your girlfriend? “Hi Honey, I love …” of “Hi, I … you”. What’s that with the 3Dots. Just learn how to finish your sentence. How to link one sentence with another, one paragraph with the next and don’t use the 3 dots!”. His mind was jumping up and down and a little fight broke out between his writers soul and his logics brain center. He needed to start over again but hated to use the delete buttons. He also hated to rereading things he wrote.

As she was reading the unexpected letter she felt confused about what was actually in the letter. She already figured out that the letter came from Belgium or at least was written in Belgium but there was no trace of a Belgian poststamp on the envelope. She could figure it out completely but she knew that, since the writer of the letter could see in the future, the explanation was going to follow in one of the next 3 senteces. Only thing she had to do was keep on reading. She could already imagine it must have been send through a new postservice on the web and she was right (she just read that she was right according to the writer and she couldn’t disagree with him). The postful.com service was indeed mentioned somewhere on the paper and it was an internet service indeed.
“How does he know all of that… He really must be great! I wish he was as close to me as this letter I’m holding in my hand!”. In a completely natural movement she sniffed the letter, hoping that some scent of him got through the cupperwire, through the whole processing process, past the ink smells unto the paper. Only thing her nose smelled was ordinary print and paper but in her head she recalled all of his scents including the smokey part (which she didn’t like but would accept for a day if he could just be there). She smelled the Oceans breeze from the time they spend a couple of days at the seaside, she smelled the first pizza he made for her on his appartment. She tasted (90% of taste goes through the nose) the Kriek and other Belgian beers they drank together in Amsterdam, Rotterdam, Antwerp,… and she tasted his lips. Was it already 2 months since they last met? The writer -or maybe beter The Writer with a capital, just to make some kind of impression- loved her. It was not always clear enough in what he said or did but she knew he loved her. He was potty trained but when it came to getting organised he still needed a lot to learn and it seemed to her that he was willing to at least try to improve himself. Just for her ofcourse. The rest of the world, although that was what was in between them, was not important.

A sudden break in the story made her realise he had stopped writing. The reason of this was not clear to her but again it was going to become clear after the little break. She was sure he was going to explain her in his typical chaotic way of writing. She was still figuring out his style, how his brain actually work -that is if he even had a brain while typing ’cause words seem to just flow to the paper; automated, random, chaoticly…

His stumach was happy. The little healthy salad had given him some more energy again. A couple of months ago he would have added a nice piece of chocolate with nuts to it, for the taste and the energy, but he had gained so many pounds that he decided to stop eating all that chocolate each day. In de beginning it was hard. Chocolate does to the brain what Love (with capital) does. It gives a little euphoric touch thanks to the endorfines activated by both love, sex and chocolate. Not that he became depressed by not eating chocolate anymore and probably it was more difficult to change the habit then to get rid of the chemical addiction to the brown gold but he was proud that he did it. His body also was happy with the change resulting in some weight lost. He had combined the no-chocolate regime with doing some more sports (still not enough but he was getting there) and drinking more water. Over a periode of a couple of weeks his heartrate in rest had come down, his neckpains caused by stress and not drinking enough water had almost disappeared and his overal energy level was going up. Not that it had anything to do with the story he wanted to tell but he just wanted to share it with the woman he loved. “With the woman he loves” is more accurate his heart said to his brain.
Today he also had changed his background image on his work computer to the picture that showed her tattoo. In the beginning it was difficult for him to resist biting the screen hoping it would feel like giving her lovebites but (after some strange looks by his collegues) he was now able to control himself. He loved the way her curly hair covered her shoulders, how her backmuscles looked a little bit like a sharp piramide with the tattoo as a base, as a funding for the rest of her beautifull body. He felt like screaming out words of addoration but they were all not suitable for work and people already thought he was crazy so he shutted up, kept his words of praise for the letter he was writing. A letter that should go on like a neverending story, with a dragon, an indian and a princess. She’s the princess in the story and if he could choose he would be the brave indian AND the dragon combined but probably he would end up being the kid who’s reading the book and doesn’t really know what he has to do to save Taxandria (of how the hell the imaginary world is named). Sadly enough it was time again to return to the duty of the day and work a little bit. Make sure there was money on his account to buy a plane ticket to that little town in the West he mentioned in the beginning of the letter where once upon a time a girl received an unexpected letter…

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