A Letter
We find it difficult to talk to each other. We're both rather shy, and I tend to retreat into sarcasm. That's why I'm writing. I have something important to say. Do you remember last summer, when that awful rash broke out on my hands? One evening we were in church arranging flowers on the altar, preparing for a confirmation. Do you recall what bad shape I was in? My hands all bandaged, and itching so much I couldn't sleep? The skin had flaked off and my palms were like open sores. We busied ourselves with daisies and cornflowers, or whatever they were, and I was feeling irritable. Suddenly I got mad at you and challenged you angrily, asking if you actually believed in the power of prayer. You replied that you did. In a nasty tone I asked if you had prayed for my hands, but it hadn't occurred to you to do so. I melodramatically demanded that you do it then and there. Oddly enough, you agreed. Your compliance enraged me, and I tore off the bandages. You remember the rest. The sight of those open sores affected you greatly. You couldn't pray. The entire situation disgusted you. I came to understand you later, but you never understood me. We had lived together for some time at that point. Almost two years, which at least represented capital in the face of our emotional poverty. Our caresses and our clumsy attempts to evade the lack of love between us. When the rash spread to my forehead and scalp, I soon noticed how you avoided me. You found me repugnant, though you tried to spare my feelings. Then the rash spread to my hands and feet; and our relationship ended. That came as a shock to me. I had to face the fact that we didn't love each other. There was no way to hide from that fact or turn a blind eye to it. I have never believed in your faith, mainly because I've never been tortured by religious tribulations. My non-Christian family was characterized by warmth, togetherness and joy. God and Jesus existed only as vague notions. To me, your faith seems obscure and neurotic, somehow cruelly overwrought with emotion, primitive. One thing in particular I've never been able to fathom: your peculiar indifference to Jesus Christ. And now I'm going to tell you about answered prayers. Laugh if you feel like it. Personally, I don't believe the two are connected. Life is messy enough, without taking the supernatural into account. You were going to pray for my weeping hands. The rash left you dumbstruck with repulsion, something you later denied. I went berserk and tried to provoke you.
"Be quiet! Since you can't pray for me, I'll do it myself! God, why have you created me so eternally dissatisfied? So frightened, so bitter? Why must I realize how wretched I am? Why must I suffer so hellishly for my insignificance? If there is a purpose to my suffering, then tell me, so I can bear my pain without complaint. I'm strong. You made me so very strong in both body and soul, but you never give me a task worthy of my strength. Give my life meaning, and I'll be your obedient slave.”
My dearest, this turned out to be a long letter. But now I've put down in writing what I never dared say when you were in my arms. I love you. And I live for you. Take me and use me. Beneath all my false pride and independent airs, I have only one wish: to be allowed to live for someone else. It's so terribly difficult. When I think about it, I can't see how I will be able to pull it off. Maybe it's all just a mistake. Tell me I'm not wrong.
- Märta in Winter Light
posted by thelostcause @ 9:48 PM
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