Not long ago I've written a few words, on an attempt that came out in the form of a letter; some sort of translation ofs thoughts pulled out from a glimpse I've given to a resort of undealt memories, unconsciously driven by the existence of an author. I've neglected sending it till the sun came to give this unpretentious Sao Paulo's wednesday morning a delightful bath, stretching its arms through my window and against my books, guiding my glance to a name I could also find resting inside a folder where some other letters remain unsent. For some reason, I realized how much I wanted to share the most genuine naiveness with which I've composed the letter I may reproduce here, while willing to find somewhere on the other side of this words the glance of the man to whom those words are intended. As a last call, I ask you to please forgive any lack of compromise with the english language, since I allowed my intentions to travel beyond any places my fluency has.
For years now, I've been harvesting thoughts, emotions, sensations and all these raw material from the edge of my imagination, harvesting at irregular intervals since my grandma passed away. Perhaps I find it singularly important to be said because I see it, from the top of my innocence, as the moment I woke up for living a life of my own; the moment that led me to the discover of my own dimensions of existence, allowing me to such astounding experience as its eternal exploration. How does it has anything to do with you, you may find yourself reluctantly considering, is what flourished on me some of the most sincere emotions I've tasted for someone I haven't met, bringing me to this speak.
My grandmother had Alzheimer's.
I can't say it is a novel I am working on now, driven by the deepest wish of sharing one of the brightest experiences my skin has tasted to some sort of romance; as well as I am not quite sure I may talk any further about my writings – although it would certainly has something to say about this one who is willing to talk, under this hope of a share. But there is something I am completely sure about, what I can tell is quite a rare occasion for a young, confused mind such as mine, about this deep will to share with you everything I am capable of recalling from that one experience, such as the emotions, impressions and effects I've gone through with my grandma's part of life under Alzheimer's custody – the time-distorting period that preceded her death.
As a reinforcement of an idea as a last note on the topic, I am not even sure I can call any of my writings part of a possibility of a novel or some sort of romance to be. Perhaps for the high percentage of reality freshness I still naively confine in there, but certainly for all the imagination I've been neglecting to its composure. I find such a beauty, this Imagination thing, you know? Something that amuses me just as much as the possibility of love to exist amongst everyone. Something you have splendid amounts of, may I add, and now I find yourself under a wild fear of loosing it. And I've spoken of love, didn't I? I beg your pardon; I can't avoid it when it comes to the highest of any comparisons. My grandmother fed me with obscene amounts of it. After all, she had nothing else to offer and I never expected any other gift to be as valuable as the love she dedicated to me every single day, from the dawns she used to love to dawns I'll never be able to tell whether she were capable of recognizing as such. I may find myself lost when I throw myself on the effort of talking about it, drifting on my own seas of idealistic romanticism, but that will never bother me. Such as the marvelousness of love is the greatness I find about Imagination. Something with which you seem to have gotten to yourself an intangible amount of grandsons and granddaughters, some of them somehow wearing higher ages than yours. All that for of your extraordinary capacity of feeding them with your own, giantlike Imagination. I wonder how fascinating is the touch of that feeling. Not just the consciousness of having achieved a point at mental exploration that allows you to gather armies of enthusiastic readers, connected to you with the strength of sons and daughters. But to find your own self drawn to the bright inside of your own realities, delicately aware of their nature. Intimately dependent of your Imagination.
Originally, I came here to tell you how intensely I've desired to share a cup of tea with you before any of your conclusions may take you any step further into reality. Some share of time where we could talk about life, about living, thus when I'd find myself the opportunity of emptying my heart to you. Although this extravagant wish hasn't vanished, as soon as I saw my words bringing down some of my deepest memories and thoughts to some kind of weird, spontaneous confession, I began to think of the nature of that possibility as a selfish behavior I didn't want to express. Hence, I may just leave you some of what I've lived beside Alzheimer's, filling this piece of paper with words that are essentially made out of hope. I may also confess that besides my passion for writing, I suddenly become an enemy of the written word in occasions where the most remote possibility of a conversation dressed in eye connection is available. Still, I may struggle to find you the finest words from reflections I really want to share about your own struggle.
Alzheimer's a wondrous thing, at first. If not for the beauty of it, in some twisted eye of understanding, certainly for its natural functioning and the position of highest metaphor that was ever built at the lip of my skin it achieved. Grandma wasn't a very eloquent person, you know. In some kind of quantification, I've found a very short range of questions capable of finding answers from her. Still, we must have talked about everything that was ever out to be spoken. She didn't give me lots of answers, though she did teach me, with the brightness I haven't found at any teacher, to think about the eternal wideness within which I may find my own ones. At this love course, my last classes where indeed the most valuable, holding the highest of the fascinating learnings. It lengths from the day her words started to translate some kind of confusion taking place at her head to that very last evening when, with her eyes lost and her hand pressed against mine, still shaking involuntarily, she broke two weeks of silence with my name. Unfortunately, I can't really tell what happened after that. I can't because I fled.
Here, I could build a whole speech just as I've done some many times already, only to justify myself against the weight of guilt. I won't. I did flee, the only regret I carry on life. Not because I wanted to have another last moment beside her, to smile instead of dropping that tear on the lap of her shaking hand. No, that kind of romanticism wont work here. I do regret because I believe I missed the last crop of the richest feelings and emotions I could've ever harvested. And I believe she wanted me to experience it, from somewhere deep behind the blankness. This fields of subjectiveness are languages just as rich as the pieces of land where reigns the Imagination.
You're a professor by nature, Mr. Pratchett. Please do not fear the sacrifice of your capability of materializing your imagination into astounding creations. Perhaps you've done more on that than did an entire world and a discworld if put together. Another side of your exceptional existence might take place, just as powerful as its former one in terms of how much you can inspire on this forgotten humanity, one you may just begin to watch from another perspective. You'll not be doing less than you've ever done.
Don't flee like I did.
I may spend the rest of my life looking for a second opportunity to live something I could have, but decided not to. Worst decision I've ever made. Now I live with an eternal will, like the most intimate desire to live something I know will never get the chance to happen. You may not even get this chance.
As a last confession, from the bottom of a heart that may remain young, I want to tell you how wonderful is the taste eternal hope. She may have left me behind, to anywhere in the axis of time, but she pushed to ahead of the end of mine some kind of hope that c might as well never vanish. I can't translate in words how, where or when it was conceived, nor how was that to believe, until the last conscious gasp left her body alone to existence, that I could pull the advance of the biological degeneration by the strength of presence, leaning only on the weight of the touch. May sound stupid – and I've heard this kind of judgement already, enough times to consider the judges too stupid – but I still believe I did achieve some effect by this most sincere efforts. I also believe I haven't lived, nor will live, such beautiful experience as the one I've just told you. One only experience that is capable of flourishing the most astounding sensations, with the power of entirely changing the course of existence. An experience I can only believe to be on the other side of a very thin line, a line that also borders the world of our dreams.