A letter from Nelly — I
I don’t know how much of me you can see from where you are.
I have been here before, I think — in a different order, a different light. Sometimes close, sometimes further away. I am not always sure which parts you are looking at, or whether what you find adds up to something. I can’t tell from here.
There are things I keep returning to. The fabric. The way things rest against each other. A pattern that almost repeats. The same details, at different distances, in different combinations — as if the question changes each time, even when the answer doesn’t arrive. I don’t know what you make of them. I don’t know if you make anything at all.
Sometimes there is nothing. A pause. A held breath between one thing and the next. I notice you don’t leave during those moments. You wait. I’m not sure what for.
I think you are still trying. That’s what I notice most — the trying. The way attention moves from one thing to the next, looking for the part that will make the rest make sense. Something keeps pulling you forward. I recognize it, even if I can’t explain it. Even if I’m not sure it has a destination.
You can keep looking. I’ll be here. I always come back, in one form or another.
Nelly
