10:22   05/11/2020

To my dear…

I had forgotten why I stopped writing you these letters. Laziness? Maybe. A change of circumstances? Possibly. The extinguishment of passion? Who knows? Either way, I did stop writing to you. And that, my darling, marked a significant milepost.

If truth be told, I was reminded of one of the main reasons I stopped writing these letters. Having read my last few letters to you, it was clear why. Too much heart. A distasteful amount. And not to say that heart is bad. No. Heart it the only true life in my art. But as someone who grew in the darkness, I don’t wish to often paint dark pictures. Much of my honesty spills upon the pages. And I can’t help it. My pen allows it. Damned silly thing! It should know better. But yes. I was reminded that these letters to you became an avenue for me to ventilate my decay. How ugly! That’s the last thing an angel needs to see.

Something small. Yet worlds larger than anything most of the lambs would ever attempt.

But I saw something today. Something small. Yet worlds larger than anything most of the lambs would ever attempt. And it reminded me, that I too, have the power. To shake worlds. To start fires. To open hearts. Sure. I’d love to be recognized as an opener of minds. But, of course, there’s always so much more to the story.

As I made my way to the rail carriage station, there was a peculiar sight. A man. Full of fire. My way to the station took me past several of the courthouses here in the capital. And it was strange to find folk out and about nowadays. The plague and the confinement it erupted caused that. These courthouses, their yards, these streets. All were usually void of people. And yet, here this champion marched.

It was a protest. An act of defiance. A stand against an established system. And from what I could figure, this protest stood against a matter in the family court. An ugly matter. Cases in that court are often unpleasant. Heart wrenching. Soul shattering. The results could break a man to pieces. Further than any prison sentence or sanction ever could. It’s the family court. It deals with matters of the heart. Of trust. Of hate. Of love. I still have no idea what the protest was about. Maybe its better that way, because I’m sure it would break my heart.

Cases in that court are often unpleasant.

I saw picket signs, raised high in the air, flown like national flags for all to see. The signs spoke names whom I will not mention. These names were appended by “… family court. Lying pigs!” Direct insults. Defamations. There must have been an absolute hatred brewing for these flags to fly. And fly they did. These signs flew from one side of the courtyard to the other, calling out to the worlds for them to be seen.

What was more noticeable were the flag bearers. Relentless. Not a clue of hesitation in their march. They wanted folk to know their anguish. Their pain. The injustice. A warning to everybody, that the family court could ruin what you treasure.

I still wonder what the protest was about. What could drive people to such unrest. And let me say, I am all for protesting. I salute those who find the courage to take a stand for what they believe in. Protests are an act of hope. A challenge to adversary. If society does not accept the necessity of protests, then there is no hope for society. For a protest is an indication that things could be better. But this protest was to the family court. Sadly, all matters of that place could be better. I hope that matters of the protest did not involve children. If children were the matter, you couldn’t blame a man for marching with such ferocity.

If society does not accept the necessity of protests, then there is no hope for society.

That’s what I saw today. A man. Marching alone. Making his protest be known, all by himself.

It was pitiful at first, the sight of a lone protester. The low numbers generally appeared weak. But the passion of this man spoke otherwise. He was powerful. Unyielding. And whatever he stood for, you knew he’d see it through to the end. Indeed, he marched alone. But the protest was loud.

I had to stop to watch this man, waving those signs about. He noticed me. Not that I mattered. His matters were far greater than the attention of a single bystander. But he did notice me. And that’s the thing. I felt that I was the only one who acknowledged this man and his protest. Not because I was entertained or amused. But because of admiration. This man was an inspiration. But sadly, I don’t think most of the fools out there noticed that. I don’t blame them. Real recognize real. And I saw a fighter.

I needed to see this man fight his fight. His will was empowering. A strong reminder that I, too, needed to remain standing. Even if all odds stood against me.

I’ll be honest. Starting a blog on the internet feels quite pointless at times. All the time, really. Even writing these letters to you, my darling, feels pointless. Do you know why? Because I don’t have an audience. Every blog post I mail to the digital world goes unread. And every letter I write to you, my darling, will never get to you. My words. These spells. They’re never written for myself. My words are always crafted for an audience. That is that nature of my art. I am a teller of tales. The only problem is, who am I telling?

If only a man was more popular. Maybe my words would reach somebody then. But that is not the case. And I have no idea how to get my words to reach others. I’m not savvy when it comes to rallying social attention. That’s not where a quiet man’s skills lie. And so with no audience, it is not easy to find the will to write.

Weakness! Those thoughts. Just a pitiful whine of a man who has considered surrender. I was being weak. That’s what seeing this lone protester made me realize. He was outside, protesting by himself, with barely any folk about to notice him, and yet marching with complete passion. And here I was, upset that I didn’t have a readership. I am a writer! A writer writes. And I’ll continue to do the one thing I know. Write!

But how will that day ever come if I stop writing?

One day I’ll have an audience. One day my letters will reach the angel in whom they were written for. One day I’ll touch everybody’s hearts. But how will that day ever come if I stop writing? I must continue the good fight. And write as a writer should. So that one day, someone will read my words, and dance inside the worlds that I create.

That man was a true inspiration. After watching him for a moment, I had to make my way. As I left, I told him to “continue fighting the good fight”. All the man said to me was “Of course!” and gave me a look that said ‘Isn’t that obvious?’ He sure put me in my place. But he also reminded me, to stand strong for what I believe in, even if it means standing alone.

That there was a hero. He may not have realized it, but he sure saved me. I salute this man. Let us all take a moment to realize that hearts of fire still exist out there. It was relieving to see. Because after so long, it was lovely to finally see that I am not alone.

Love from yours truly

Daniel Roy