A Foreword of Unpublished Book

A Walk in Philadelphia, 2018.

 

Hi, J. There's a slim chance you might read it, but if you do, know that I'm sorry for everything that is not working for us. I'm really sorry for leaving you in the dark as I was lost and trying to save only myself. I was writing it here, just by any chance, by any luck, you could find and read it. I just want you to know, even only for a moment, what we had, we shared, and we felt, all of it was real for me. It was not only a fantasy or the idea of you that I had in my head; it was real, you are real. Even until now, I still remember what the Uber driver told us: "Have fun, you two J's!", how the wind was brushing my hair, how the light was bouncing off your thin glasses, and how those eyes were looking at the river while we were on the pier. I remember that I really wanted to touch your hair at that moment. Hell, I remember everything. I wish we had more time. I want to do it all over again if I can, honestly. I even didn't feel sorry for ditching my friends, so I could spend the night with you (I know they still hate me until now), but anyway. That, J, was the best night in my life, just walking with you until morning, sharing the story, and laughing. Philly is so beautiful after midnight. Thank you for all that.

The feeling for you was genuine and honest; it was real for me. It was just a thing I never said: the distance and language were hard for me. The language was complicated for me, and you would never believe it if I said this; I felt stupid; I couldn't understand you when we were on the phone. I felt so lost in understanding you. How could that happen? How could it be so hard on the phone, but not on email or while I look at your eyes directly? I never told you that it was back-breaking for me. I was busy with my thoughts, I didn't realize that I was running away from you, I didn't know that fear could make love wear off like that. I mean, I never thought my feeling for you decreased time by time. It saddened me.

Thinking of it at that time was scary. I didn't think I was mature and wise enough to talk about it with you; that is what made me a humbug. I was so scared of how you looked at me and took the wrong decision. After reading all our emails, I felt something was wrong; I was wrong, it felt that I was hurting you; I am really sorry. I loved the time we spent together. I just didn't dare to say that I couldn't do this with you. All of it. I just wish we could have a better start, a better journey, and a better chance to communicate. I write this post to you a year later after you sent me the draft of 'the book', that I knew would never be published. 

I loved you back then, and I still love you now, just maybe not in the same form of love I had a year before. Like you said, perhaps we can be close without any romantic involvement, but I ruined it. So you have to know, please, know that there's a chance I can fall if I see your brown eyes again; I hope I could see you again. So writing this here is a prayer. I hope I can see you again. So please let me put your foreword here, just to remind me of how beautiful the moment we had back then. Because it may be right that I'm a humbug for not saying to you directly.

"This book is about, from a logistical standpoint, nothing. When pondering how to write a book about nothing, we have decided to write a book about everything. Jessy and I met by pure chance. And when I say chance, you should be reading it as fate if you believe in that sort of thing. If. She was a professor from Indonesia who formerly worked for the magazine. Her curiosity took her across the globe to Philadelphia, where she wanted more than the scholarly experience in Religious Pluralism. I was a recent grade from business school who wanted a job that was fulfilling on a moral level and, more importantly, wasn’t slinging beers at a bar.

This brought both of us to the Dialogue Institute, a non-profit associated with the Journal of Ecumenical Studies. As part of the Study of U.S. Institutes program (SUSI) they offer every year a group of scholars come to the United States to study Religious Pluralism in this country. As an economics major who studied at a business school, I had little to offer in that regard, especially considering the multiple theological Phd’s I worked with. However, one scholar (Ms. Ismoyo) wanted to buy records, and that is something I am more than capable of helping with. So a mutual love of Hall and Oates lead to a relaxing afternoon of walking around the city. Then it was over, forgotten even for the moment. The scholars went on their tour of the U.S. while I stayed behind in Philadelphia. I thought that was the end of the story. 

Their last night in Philadelphia, I was on my couch reading a comic when a message came through; it asked how close I lived to some bar. Then the next one came through “Don’t you want to see me one more time before I leave?” This was my true introduction to Jessy. I said I would go out for a beer or two, that was at 10 pm. I came home at 3:30 in the morning. After traveling to 3 different parts of the city that night, we eventually realized we had so much in common. This is the point where, if it was a cosmo article, I would mention that our birthdays are 5 days apart and also have the same initials (for those of you who somehow got this far without reading our names). But on a serious note, a conversation about music and movies turned into our similarly dark disposition on life. We understood each other, understood the things we became frustrated trying to explain to others. 

Then the next morning she left for D.C. That was when it was supposed to end. But it didn’t, and that next day is why this book is being written. You have to be shut off for so long, to run from the pain, hide from yourself. Or at least we did. Then we met each other, someone who understood those dark feelings no one else did. It was suddenly easy for us to talk to someone, but there was a caveat; why would you want to tell everything, explain everything, to someone who already understands it? Was it to better understand ourselves? Was it to better understand each other? Was it to stop the pain and loneliness? Or was it for something greater? If all we really wanted was to tell each other there wouldn’t be a book. Instead, it would just formalize as a series of emails and messages. To understand the book, we had to understand the night we spent together.

On our way from my neighborhood to the waterfront our driver noticed that all 3 of us had names that begin with a J. Except the difference is Jessy was the traveling J, the one who had stopped down momentarily but was ultimately going home, the bird simply resting her wings. I was the local J, the one born and raised here, the one meant to stay. And yet, somehow, the 2 of us (3 if you count the short-lived interaction with Joseph) had so much in common with things we could never explain to people in our own worlds. We didn’t think anything of it until we realized that we couldn’t be alone. A chance meeting that was unique for us couldn’t be unique across 8 billion people. 

And so Jessy tasked us when we said goodbye with finding the other “J’s” of the world. It was on us to find the people who found comfort in darkness, love in loneliness, and sorrow in joy. People who needed to explanation of how we felt and yet wanted one so they knew they weren’t alone, knew that after all those who misunderstood them they were not wrong. They were just part of a demographic spread across the globe. So we agreed to travel the world and find them. A week later, the reality of jobs and private lives (and the cost of traveling the world to just talk to strangers) sunk in. and instead we continued to talk to each other. And so our quest to find those like us, was put aside. 

Both of us prefer notes to conversations on messaging apps. Long emails and letters make us feel better, feel the freedom to really say what we mean, and that is this book. We wanted to publish them, or write them for publication more correctly, for two reasons; we want to expose our feelings. Years of repressed feelings and finding yourself unable to communicate, years of feeling uncomfortable in your own skin, years of feeling like you were wrong. And when we found one person who understood we wondered who else did. So by writing this book, this collection of personal letters, we are exposing ourselves to the world in hopes of feeling less lonely. But the second reason is for the reader; we hope that if people, even just two, read this and feel the connection between what we say and how they feel, that they can go out and find people like us, like them, and stop being alone. 

This book, as I said, is about nothing. There is no thesis, no point, it is an open conversation. Instead it is about everything. Chapters are letters followed a response. A recorded conversation. The topics covered evolved over time. There was no structure, because structure is the natural predatory of truth. We must say how we feel, however we find it best. We needed to say everything both of us wanted to. We want the world to see what happens when you expose yourself. But without everything you find the greatest juxtaposition of all; nothing and everything. This book started with no plan, no structure, nothing. So naturally, the only true way to discuss nothing, is by telling everything. Structure and confusion is somehow one and the same. This juxtaposition of Jays’ is how we find meaning where it does not naturally belong, and create the peace that can only be found in utter chaos. This is us, and maybe you. We hope you find your meaning in reading this, and find your own Jay. Write your own juxtaposition. Know you are not alone. And most importantly, feel. Feel alive, feel comfortable in who you are, feel everything, as opposed to nothing." 

Someday, I promise you, I will write about us. Want you to know that all the coincidences we experienced will lead to something I haven't figured out yet. I really want to hug you right now. Please, be well.

PS.   still play your playlist on Spotify every time I miss you.