Dead Letter

Dear Indi-of-the-Past,

We have completed (however satisfactorily) our first year of university.

Has the way we percieve ourself changed? Has the way we percieve life changed? I don't know.

But we have gained perspective.

University is not that big a deal. It is not the end of the world, not even the unbreakable walled path to a specific, singular career.

It is frightening. But it means us no harm.

We have met people. Interesting people. We have realised it is not imperative to fit in straight away. That there is a peace and comfort in solitude. And companionship in a crowd.

We have realised there is time. We have learnt that living each moment like your last, that keen awareness of one's mortality, does not mean one must achieve all their goals NOW. To know, to see, to have, NOW. It means appreciating what one DOES have now and all those tiny, fleeting instances only your soul will truly remember. Like the colours in the sky. Like the feeling of running. Like ringing up a friend, or sitting with your dad, or making hot chocolate on the stove with your sister, late late at night, when you can't study any more.

We've learnt InDesign is a LINKING PROGRAM. That Illustrator is a VECTOR BASED PROGRAM. That we must walk before we run and it isn't about manipulating the medium to suit your purpose, but allowing the medium TO manipulate your purpose.

That patience
is
key.

That compassion
is
all.

That we are 18.

That we must be realistic and forgiving of ourselves.

So, we have learnt alot.

Dearest Indi, you were so nervous about the future. But we have come so far. And so much has changed.

Jay is happy in Canberra and we are so happy in turn. I see her becoming a brilliant architect, or at least some sort of creator. Ess-dear will heal the world. She seems to be enjoying her degree and I believe it suits her perfectly. And she recently got a job too! Opposite Tea's apartment, would you believe!
Tea is still searching for her calling. She is confused. She has been through a truly tumultous year, full of shadows, wavering incadescent light and explosions of sunshine. I feel she will be searching for a while. Like us all, I suppose. She'll find a path soon enough. And we intend to be there.

We went opshopping the other day for the first time in months. We salvaged a few cds from the messy rows, all with cloudy, smudged, plastic covers.

Mum was dubious as to their quality, of course. But I've imported them and they're all fine. Something tells me I should return them all again, for someone else to find. Maybe I'll leave a note in their covers, maybe to tell them to come here. A cycle.

But I would like to keep one, I think. It is green - nicely designed. The Rasmus' Dead Letters. I would like to keep it because I opened it up and it spoke to me. A passage of small white writing against stormy green on the jacket says that:

"A DEAD LETTER IS A

LETTER THAT HAS

NEVER BEEN

DELIVERED BECAUSE

THE PERSON TO WHOM

IT WAS WRITTEN

CANNOT BE FOUND,

AND IT ALSO CANNOT BE

RETURNED TO THE

PERSON WHO WROTE IT".

I imagine a world of dead letters, hanging in space. I imagine victims of war or devastastion. A dark limbo of dead letters.

And I suppose I fling this letter out to you, into the void, to hang there too.

All my love,

Indi.

Red Alice

When you are 18 the world is very small and your are very selfish.

You also feel infinitely old.

This I have recently discerned. At least, it's a true summation of me.

I feel like I must know what-who-how-why-where I am, and anxiety grows from the uncertainty. I am absorbed in myself. Who I want to be, what I want to do with my life, the necessity of knowing now against the imagined peril of un-knowing.

I want to write-draw-direct-sleep-illustrate-love-venture-discover-settle-fall. I want this and I want that.

My world, myself, me and I.

30 seems close and ancient and the very last oppurtunity for living and dreaming. Even though, with a little perspective, one can be reassured that it truly isn't.

I am 18 years old, and in another 18 I will be 36. And in another 36, I will be 74. And that's (touch wood) a long way away.

And 74 isn't even that old.

I have started to believe that it is only in thinking-rushing-scrabbling for success and direction that one can truly age the soul, and that this is why, at the moment, I am so topsy-turvy and frazzled around the edges. I am trying to shine like a burning flame, forgetting that in burning the foundations of a fire quickly smoulder and float away on the breeze, lost and fragmented.

We must learn to flow like water. We must learn to breathe and let the current take us, us fervent, frightened, fiery 18 year olds. We are infinitely young. We must make mistakes and learn from them. We must be open to change and possibility.

Graphic Designer, Writer, Director, Nomad, whatever. Let's just see what happens.

Things aren't what they seem through the looking glass.






{{The Author wants to caution the reader that for all her idealism and attempts at philosophy and peace, she is only 18 after all, and a very noob-y 18 year old at that.


She is also a hypocrite, and will continue to moan and fuss and worry about her future and the loss of time for a while yet.... maybe until she turns 19.}}