love

A Love Letter To The Wise Man Who Changed My Life Forever

Photography by George Noroc

Act 6: A love letter to Mr Wisebird from Ithaca

Time passes after her departure. On the background, there is a film running, with trains, glasses of wine and people bumping into each other. The scene is being lit slowly. She is at the beach and seems to be writing something. Every now and then, she stops and looks at the horizon.

Dear Mr Wisebird,

I am writing you from Ithaca. It feels good here, I spend the days half lazy dreaming about all kinds of things. My life has changed since I met the collector. I think I am becoming a little wiser also. I discovered the mind is twisted, there is always something to worry about, even when there is no apparent reason to do so. But now I have a mood control system that I am trying to apply. This mood control system is actually very simple: I just need to be aware of how I feel and act accordingly. But, unfortunately, I still punch people in the eye with my blunt honesty sometimes. I still behave like a wounded dragon if my majesty in love is threatened. But I also discovered that the road to happiness might be very simple: you need to do what you like and be careful not to wound the others.

In one of the islands I visited, I met a healer, he held me close and kissed me and told me that I am actually more balanced then I thought: I use both my mind and my heart. And I felt split for so long! But with just a little change in the viewpoint, the ensemble seems lightened compared to all that darkness I visited. I want to thank you, Mr Wisebird, for planting the seeds of hope in my soul. Without hope, we are nothing. I don’t know where I will head next after Ithaca, I feel at home here after feeling like a wandering stranger for so long. I have the Ulysess syndrome, dear Mr Wisebird, and all the strangers I am attracted to are just reflecting the way I sometimes feel, as if I am a familiar stranger to myself. I figured out this might be my life journey: to get acquainted with myself as much as possible, to stop feeling as a familiar stranger and tell the story of this. From all the trouble we pass to, there is always some wisdom we can filter and that wisdom we gain is worth living for and sharing it with other people.

I will keep writing to you, I hope your feathers are as shiny as always and that you leave a little trace of kindness everywhere you go. There are still a lot of things you don’t know about me. Maybe we are afraid of sharing our depth with other people for fear they won’t understand us. We end up being so isolated in sorrow. But since my eyes opened, I realized these problems that we discuss, everyone has them. I used to call myself complicated, but then the healer told me i am just complex and again I found great relief in his words. It’s strange, right, how much healing power there is inside words. I think you would like this healer that I met and that you would probably become friends with him too if you met him.

It’s time to end my letter here, I am meeting some people for art therapy in the evening. There is something else I discovered about myself, that these healers that I like, with bright eyes and peace in their words might have something in common with me too. It’s really surprising how much we can define ourselves by the relationships we get involved into.

Sunset in Ithaca is spectacular as if the border between fact and fiction that I have been so obsessed with dissolved. I wish I could go traveling to all the Greek islands just to see how sunsets look there. If I will get to see the sunset in the island of Lesbos, I will keep you informed about how it feels like.

A kiss for you, Mr Wisebird!

Love,

Maya

Laura Livia Grigore is a poet, painter and psychology enthusiast, with a background in space engineering. She likes to experiment with various mediums and types of writing. Her artwork is orientated on emotions, reflecting her opinion that most of the answers we need can be found inside ourselves, although the hardest thing to do is to be sincere with oneself.

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