Letters to Petersburg

Letters to Petersburg

“Your mother was right, the view in Lauterbrunner is indeed beautiful. I see why you were so eager to finally start travelling. Such a beautiful village for your first destination was an excellent choice, I have to admit. Even now that I’m walking in your footsteps I still wonder why exactly you preferred the Alps over coastal scenes or the rural settings your mother was always on about. Understandably so, you were a big fan of hiking, I remember. How about when we meet again, you could tell me what this scenery made you feel, in what ways it inspired you. That way I would understand freedom through your eyes and words, and what it truly meant to you.”

27th July 1996

Learning how to use words to their fullest was not at all hard for the young writer. After all this job was her passion too, not just her obligation.

For someone as talented as she was, writing down jumbled up emotions was an easy feat. Even making sense out of them was something she did with a calm heart and quick fingers that worked steadily on the keys.

She has written down many, many words before and was a slave to trying to find meaning behind everything with them.

Even with the knowledge that language is the prison in which the expression of the mind is born, she knew words that limit her also give her a safe ground to grow from, even behind the bars.

Hence she didn't mind being limited like that, this was the most liberating restriction any human could get behind.

So it happened that words were her safe haven, ever since she learned what feeling fully meant. She learned those things through the people she met, but interestingly enough, most of them did not understand what she had to say. Despite having a way with words, expressions and phrases, ironically she could hardly connect with others in her personal life.

Which was strange of course, since she knew the feelings she had were experienced by everyone else as well. So what made her words so obscure that nobody stopped to try and make sense of them?

Those moments of rejection just made her more certain about her desire to understand the language of people. She has seen many great people in her life who thought so little that the absence of rational thoughts was exactly what gave them depth.

Yet she could convey what they felt into words, ones that were accurate and comprehensive, even if she herself could not fully resonate with their mindsets.

Early in her life she experienced the expectations of people who couldn't quite put their thoughts into words, so she did it for them instead.

That is how she became a ghostwriter, that is why she chose to compose well crafted speeches or heartfelt confessions. Some requests were familiar and personal, others were strictly professional but she never struggled to tell all the topics apart and write according to each of them.

While business related commissions occurred in bigger numbers, she had a great deal of people coming in to ask her to write memoirs, personal letters and even a few rejections here and there.

The writer thought the lives of her clients were fascinating, even more so when she got to put their experiences and thoughts into words in the exact way they would, if they had the time or ability. It was a lucrative career too. She lived well, even if she lived all alone.

Loneliness was one problem she could never solve, no matter what angle she analyzed it from. If she wasn't buried in books and articles, she would almost obsessively rewatch her favorite shows and movies every now and then.

It wasn't that she was afraid to try new things, she was just more comfortable in this repetitive madness that slowly numbed her outlook on existence. After all, they had a grounding influence in her life. If she would suddenly find herself enjoying things she thought she hated, maybe her work and her rather prosperous perspective would crumble.

“Today was just terrible. As I was writing together all the things Anna requested me to put into the eulogy, I suddenly got this awful feeling in my chest. The poor girl noticed and thought I was going to collapse right there in that hideously cramped office. I must have been quite the sight then, if your sister got so concerned. How selfish it was of me, to act so affected while she was the one going through all of this. I am merely an observer, watching from the sidelines of your life, not someone who should get this worked up. I barely knew you, after all. I sometimes wonder if you saw me this way too. As someone who only existed quietly in the corner of your eye, always staying out of the way instead of taking action.”

5th February 1995

As much as the writer thought of finally moving somewhere else, she still was quite fond of Lomonosovo and the quiet afternoons she would spend outside in the garden, gazing at the meadow stretching behind their old family house.

It has been standing for about 33 years now, and of course due to the population loss many villages were facing, she hadn't yet managed to sell it. It was hastily built, housing her family in the era that was otherwise known for its massive house transformations all over the country.

Nobody really stayed to take care of their home, despite the amount of memories the family shared in that house. The closest relative she could name was living in Strelna, between her hometown and Saint Petersburg.

Her uncle was the one who gave her the first real job when she started her ghostwriting career. He asked for her specifically, even though she was only a beginner back then.

It was a summary she wrote in the article of her uncle’s company. Of course she did not get credit for it, but at least she got some praise from the man and her grandmother. Who, to put it lightly, was never the brightest among her family members, with little or no knowledge about most things that happened outside of the depressive social cycle she formed with the local elderly.

Still, the writer was satisfied with the recognition she got from her relatives, even if it was shallow, even if nobody would really care about her own personal projects at the end of the day.

While she wasn't particularly affectionate with her family, she was grateful for her uncle the most. It was her eighteenth birthday when she received a typewriter as a gift from him.

Shortly after she began actually working, personal computers became standard instead, but she decided to stick with the gift out of respect. Maybe because she liked the feeling it gave her too. She could pretend she was some kind of famous author with an era changing work up her sleeve.

Since then she became a collector of some sort, with about ten different models of typewriters in her office.

The first one was from Soviet-era production, an old Rheinmetall, which was rather valuable for many reasons, and not only in her eyes.

The young woman had a knack for hoarding all sorts of stuff that she normally would never use. It was the same with feelings, she often thought.

Her life was never fervent, in fact she was called boring and uninspiring multiple times throughout her teenage years. People would assume she rarely left her room, didn't go to parties, did not have boyfriends or friends. Which was true of course, but it didn't make her feel any less horrible about it.

The only thing she remained fond of over the years was writing letters, specifically. It was her own unique way of therapy. Instead of choosing to have a diary, she’d take a sheet of paper and write her grievances down, adding the recipient, sender and the date, as if politely complaining to God.

The first letter was for her chemistry teacher who humiliated her in front of the whole class. The second was for her best friend who chose to sit with another girl in the cafeteria and ignored her for a whole day. Through the years, this peculiar stack of letters grew in numbers until she finally realized she was perhaps acting a little childish.

“About a year or two before school ended, I had a dream about you. I never told you this since I believed it was meaningless at that time. The dream was about a trip our class went on, and for some strange reason I decided to get up and leave on my own. I never liked them anyway, so now I’m starting to see the connection between that imaginary action and real life. As I was walking away, suddenly I felt a hand grip my arm tightly. When I spun around to see who it was, you were standing there. You asked where I was heading to and if you could come with me. I don't remember my response, I only remember how strongly you were holding onto my arm. I jolted awake moments after, feeling a strange sensation on my left arm, as if someone was actually gripping it. Now that you reside somewhere else, I can not help but blame this dream for why I can’t let go of you. Maybe you reaching out in a dream meant you truly did desire my company.”

7th April 1995

If there was one thing she wasn't good at, it was the act of moving on. She spent most of her life deprived of things people considered normal. Friends, parents who listened, peaceful environments, equal chances.

She was able to enjoy herself enough and was never one to loudly complain about her setbacks. She was as ordinary as anybody could be, kind of like a gray mouse. Nobody was ever particularly intrigued by her, so of course the first time someone showed even the slightest bit of interest in her, it immediately became an important part of her life.

She fell in love with a classmate of hers, who in the end chose a path in life that he could never return from. The writer never really knew whether he loved her back or just appreciated how genuinely simple she was. Despite her confusion about her feelings for him, she still chose to spend a lot of time in his company. He was greatly amused by how easy it was for her to see through the layers of life and still preserve her uniqueness, despite how many similar struggles they shared.

There was one difference between them. It was their tolerance limit. They walked the same streets, went to the same stores to buy groceries. They mostly talked to the same people, they watched the same news everyday, they shared the same opinions on books and movies. They both preached about the beauty of being able to live, except in the end neither of them really meant it.

Meanwhile she believed this numbness was the only certainty in life, he slowly realized he could no longer pretend that he tolerated it. He often found himself to be envious of her pragmatic solutions for dealing with emotions. She wasn't capable because she understood, she was capable because she knew things happened just because they could. No grand revelation in the end, no reward for pushing through a life filled with dullness and repetition.

To her, romantic feelings were never loud, they didn't bring vividness into her life like how others would've described it. She just knew she had something now, she had a person to think of, she had a person who could make sense of her ramblings.

This newfound love interest of hers wasn't ambitious or determined in the slightest. He just wanted to run away. He had a whole list of all the places he wanted to visit and talked about it like it would change the course of his life to see mountains and rivers.

She wanted to have aspirations like that too. She began viewing distant places similarly, believing that the future could be her savior. She didn't know what she needed saving from, but he did. His desire to leave always lingered, from his childhood to his few adult years.

The writer thought she would have time, maybe she could figure it out with him, maybe he could help her see her own true dreams.

That was her impression until the moment he said he would be leaving and moving to a bigger city with his family.

She helped them with packing and during that time she became friends with his sister, Anna. After they moved, she returned to her monotone life like nothing happened. She didn't feel like she lost him, she wasn't sure she even knew what it felt like to miss someone.

Until a year later she got a call from Anna, asking her to meet in person. After that meeting her work gained more depth. The funeral speeches she wrote for strangers became familiar goodbyes instead, each of them filled with the sorrow she felt and not just knew about.

Still, the lack of understanding was what frustrated her the most. To know why, to know if all this was worth it, to feel what eventually leads to making life changing decisions. That’s why she decided to do what she did. A few months after she returned from Saint Petersburg she decided to travel on her own for the first time. She remembered his list, kept it in mind like it was hers.

The writer thought of this as a chance in life and began viewing her experiences as experiments to see if she could love and desire freedom the same way most people did. The more places she went, the more letters she wrote. They were filled with descriptions of the scenery, the culture and food, the people and their different perspectives.

They were filled with her wonder, her expectations for what this mighty freedom felt like.

Until she got tired from walking too much or got too carried away with conversations and interesting interactions. Then she began writing less and thinking about herself more. She began seeing more into lucky encounters and inconveniences, gave more thought to new tastes and different cultures.

So much so that she felt like she didn't need to write more. One last message seemed to be enough to tell a story memorable for the rest of her life.

“I decided this is going to be the last letter I send. Not because of some superstitious reason for finally letting go of you, but because I think I understand everything now. I understand why you wanted to get away so badly, I now understand the passion and desire one has for freedom. In my searching, I was too focused on trying to see your perspective, why you did what you did. Never once did I consider what I might find on this journey, which in the end has become mine.

On my way to the cottage I saw a beautiful field, full of blooming flowers. As I was about to pick some, the wind suddenly picked up, taking my hat with it. I started chasing it down the hill. As I was trying to grab it, I found myself enjoying this inconvenience, laughing like a carefree child amidst the tall grass. After a few moments I realized I wasn't trying to catch up with the hat anymore, I was just running along the wind that carried across the field. Gazing at the sunset was when I realized the thing I felt was freedom, the desire I had was to continue running, even if the breeze would lead me nowhere, even if you would not be there, standing in the grass, laughing with me. That was the moment I first felt true peace in a while, when imagining your happiness was enough instead of wishing for it to be real.

This moment led to my decision to never write to you again. I think I know now how to live with only my dreams and desires instead of carrying yours too, in hopes to understand you one day.”

1st September 1998

Even if she started traveling for someone else, in the end the dreams of a distant love were what gave her the passion to truly live.

Through the desires of an old friend she learned about all the little surprises life held, about small, happy moments hidden in inconveniences and setbacks.

The journey she set on was originally not hers, but along the way of understanding, it became the most influential period of her life.

It wasn't about what he would've thought anymore, it wasn't about trying to feel what he would have felt. Not because she finally moved on from her heartbreak, but because the life he inspired her to live would truly become the greatest love for her.

That's how it happened that the letter she wrote in September 1998 would be the last letter ever sent to Saint Petersburg, to the gravesite of Radomil Zakharov.

To the man who meant so much to her she decided to travel the world to honor him and fulfill his wishes.

She knew now that she didn't need to understand him to love him, she didn't need to know what love really was to feel it.

She made peace with all the feelings she had for a dead man, made peace with the love that in the end slowly found its way back to her.