Letters to Ocean

A piece of writing inspired by Ocean Vuong's On Earth We're Briefly Gorgeous.

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i.

Ocean,

I have always admired the way you write about love. About grief, about pain.

About the ways in which we grow distant from the people we love yet do not stop loving them,

unconditionally.

I’ve always liked your name, too. The ocean inspires me. It’s inspired me since I was eight years old

on the beaches of a tropical island, afraid to go deeper into the water than I’d known before. I did

anyway. I wanted to. Perhaps that is what drives us. That is what destroys us. Wanting to fall deep

into the oceans that we know are capable of drowning us.

And then, becoming one with them.

As if to say: I am here, and I am yours.

ii.

Ocean,

The day I picked up the book that would end up being the one I love the most, is a day I remember

particularly well. I remember the sunset being golden and my dog barking at people on the street.

A daily occurrence. I remember the wind blowing strong enough for the sound of the neighbours’

metal wind chime to reach my windows, but not strong enough to take down the trees. The ones I

have stood next to and admired the greatness of. The ones I have touched to sink into the pure

adoration of the fact that they carry the stories of thousands before me. That, for a person who

cares a lot about the impact people leave on the world, forests are far from the deliriums of life.

I sat there and read what you wrote about your mother. About how you are two people who love

each other the most but haven’t been able to say it in poems. In letters and proses. Only in evenings

that will fade into oblivion before either of you do. In moments, trapped in time. Moments trapped

in eternities intertwined on your fingertips.

I sat there and read what you wrote about someone you loved. I sat there and wished I had the

courage to tell people I miss them more than I remember them.

To walk up to the people I once loved, look straight into their eyes, and tell them how they changed

me. The courage to tell them ‘Some nothings change everything after them.’

For someone who’s never been in love, I write about it a lot.

iii.

Ocean,

I am writing to tell you I’m alright. Just like most of the world is.

Alright, as long as alright equals sinking into spirals / spirals of thoughts, perhaps? / just, spirals.

I am writing to tell you the world is quite extravagant. To tell you we sink into waves of grief, but

I’ve always liked to focus on the courage that doesn’t let us drown. The courage that is building up

inside every one of us, slowly. Like bricks in a wall / like clouds in the sky / like drops in the ocean.

Ocean, I’ve been contemplating the true meaning of this question.

How many times do people tell the people they love they are shattering while it is happening, that

they are breaking, like glass. How many times do people tell the people they love they are ecstatic.

That they’ve never felt better, that the world feels so infinite they want to live forever and smell every

flower and taste drops of every rainfall on their fingertips, that they’re holding on to pieces of

perfection and falling in love with them. How many times do people tell the people they love that

they love them?

A lot, I’m sure. But not nearly enough.

iv.

Ocean,

I know the weight of bitterness. The weight of melancholy, the weight of heartbreak. I am familiar

with the weight of loss. The weight of forevers, the weight of infinities falling apart, the euphoria

slowly wearing off. The weight of looking back at the world and seeing heartbreakingly beautiful

memories. The weight of finally swimming out of an ocean of endings only to sink into it again, an

ocean of all the things people write about. Perhaps that is why I used to write about grief so much.

Today, I am revisiting the past. Feeling the weight of the things I talk about in nothing more than

anecdotes to my best friend.

I also know the infinities that come with happiness. The moment the world feels so endless you want

to sink into it forever. The moments you want to reminisce. The moments you want to relive, a

thousand times over.

I think you do too. You know the weight of bitterness better than I do. The weight of loss, of grief,

of survival. I hope you sink into many happy infinities. That they remain infinite, for as long as you

know them. I hope you find fields of tulips to sink into. The poems I’ve written about happiness

have been my favourite. The ones I want to read twice. They’ve been the poems I love.

The art that makes me want to believe the world is good, too. That it is iridescent and stunning and

beaming with delight.

That on the best days. the world itself is like a happy child who has known nothing but joy.

v.

Ocean,

I am dreaming worlds into existence, sitting on clouds of hope and looking for shooting stars to

make wishes on. I am dreaming in the colours of sunsets. I am dreaming worlds into existence, and

I hope one of them is perfect.

I’m not sure how to end this, really.

So I might leave it incomplete.

Paragraphs left unsaid.

Ocean,

cảm ơn bạn.

(Thank You.)