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Bloodflowers excerpt 14

November 22, 2013

[hastily written on a whim…to be edited later]

It is not until I am emptying the old house completely in preparation for listing it on the market that I come across the letter. It’s tucked beneath a pile of mail and paperwork I’d been meaning to get to but then forgot about. It’s addressed to me, and was clearly hand delivered; there is no postage mark. It is dated, though, 13 months prior.

I cannot mistake David’s handwriting, but the date is after David’s death and I don’t remember us writing a letter. He must have written it while I was asleep at some point. I put down the rest of the papers I’m holding, and sit down on the bare hardwood floor against the cold wall. I open the letter and read.

Hiiiiiiiiiiii, baby!!!! I ❤ you!!!

A letter from my husband’s ghost, and it looks like a freaking text message. Great. Only Dave… I shake my head, smile, and read again.

I don’t know when you’ll find this. I hope it’s before you turn 50 or something. You currently have coupons in here that have been expired for two years, though, so I suppose I’ll be glad if you even ever find this at all. I’ll assume you do, though, because everything will work out how it needs to.

It is my hope that, by now, you’ve shacked up with TGB. God, I hope you’re not 50 and single when you read this. If you are, then you Fucked It Up. If that’s the case, then go find TGB. Fall in love with him. You will love each other very much if you let yourselves. The Universe willing, you’re already in love. Good.

It has always been a part of my soul’s grand design to lead you to TGB. Why you couldn’t have met him yourself, or why you didn’t end up together when you and I were first a couple is beyond me. It seems a bit peripatetic, to me at least. You know, like circumlocutory or whatever for me to have to date you, which brought you to James, which brings you to TGB. But it really isn’t for me to judge, since I don’t know where we’re all heading anyway. But there’s some awesome Ineffable Plan at work, and my being with you, and you being with TGB are both a part of it.

I have lied to you, B., and I’m sorry for that. Sometimes, though, the Ineffable Plan feels an awful lot like a pinball game when you get a tilt – your flippers are held fast, and you can’t do anything but watch. There was simply no way for me to tell you, even when I became aware of, you know, “The Plan,” I couldn’t tell you, couldn’t think it to you, nothing. The Nothing Space is a lie. It exists, but is not somewhere anyone could ever be stuck. It’s more like a meditative space, or meditative dimension. Or non-space, I guess. Personally, I think the Nothing Space is what people are calling dark matter in the universe, but I’m not privy to confirming that information. It’s a huge space made up of nothing, so it’s also infinitely small. Don’t try to hard to understand it. There is no way for the living human brain to understand it. What the fuck, right?

It’s annoying to me that I couldn’t tell you there was SO much more than the Nothing Space, so much more than anyone has ever even dreamed – and that now I get to, in writing, while you sleep, all for you to find…eventually? Hopefully? When you wake up, I’ll be unable to tell you about TGB again. I will be unable to tell you about the letter. I might not even be able to remember the letter when I’m done writing it. Annoying, but that’s the big old IP for you. At least I get to tell you something – all assuming you do find this letter in time. And, hell, if you don’t get it, well, then that’s all a part of how it’s supposed to work. I’ll tell you what, B., fucking multidimensional physics is NUTS, and the plan controls all of it. So really, there can never be a way for us to understand the plan, all because of this multidimensional bullshit – I sure as shit get to travel through more than space and time now, but I don’t think anyone ever gets a lock on all of them, if there IS an all. Anyway, since we’re everything is dimensionally limited to some degree, none of us can ever see The Big Picture. We’re not supposed to. Ineffability is a BITCH, I tell you. The left hand doesn’t know what the right is ever doing, it seems, and what’s really weird about it is that we’re all EVERYTHING. By association, we should all be multidimensionally omnipotent and omniscient, be The Plan itself (I like calling it that, yeah). But we’re not. Or we don’t know that we are. I don’t know. Right now, I just know there IS something more than life as we know it, and we are on set paths. We got to walk part of our paths together, and it was awesome. Pretty soon, I’ll be doing whatever it is I’m supposed to do next. Like a Mormon missionary, I’ll know where I’m going when I get there, really. You, however, need to share the next part of your with TGB.

 For whatever reason, at some point you are supposed to know all this explicitly, presumably, when you find this letter. I don’t know if you retire from being a rock god and instead become a theoretical physicist or what. I have no idea what TGB has to do with it. I just get the privilege of telling you what you need to know. Love TGB. Go learn shit about the history and the current work on the study of the universe’s existence.

 And, know that I love you. What’s really cool about where I am now is that I know that you and I have loved one another always. There has never been and never will be a separation between us. We have always known one another. Because even though it feels to you like we met in high school and were separated too soon, what you don’t know is that a part of you is “here” with me, and a part of me is always there with you. Again, it’s something you can’t possibly understand until you experience it, and I promise you will, but it’s something you need to know. I don’t have to say I love you and always will, because time isn’t linear here. For that matter, there really is no “here.” I love you. You love me. Somehow, you have to make some us of all this information.

Thank you for our “life” together. I couldn’t have asked for more in that life.

I love you, Bryan Mitchell. Infinitely.

Dave

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From → Bloodflowers, fiction

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