God help me if I should forget a single moment—July 27, 1973

1973 m. liepos 27 d.

My dearest Jim—

Forgive the handwriting—I am becoming used to writing in script. It seems forever since the last letter, but I have no concrete idea of how long it has been . . . So much happens each day. And I cannot tell you anything that matters, I must keep it within. God help me if I should forget a single moment. In any case—I spent most of the weekend with my relatives, intensely packed days, the most intense of my life (not excluding Rush Week). I saw an incredible amount, in them and with them, and on Sunday we went on a mini-camping trip (within Vilnius) where I found my first chance to write since coming here. It seems that a thousand songs should pour forth at the first opportunity—but no. One half-finished poem. Still, I am pleased, I can still catch something, it means . . .

My relatives are really enough, as far as being with people goes . . . as for the rest, no murmurs of the heart. I miss you badly, I have your letter here with me, it really helps sometimes. There are moments when it seems that here is the only place in the world. God knows.

The courses are helpful in my—what do you call it—enunciation. The rules of grammar—that is not the way for me to gain a practical command of the language. That only comes from talking to people, and I'm trying to do quite a bit of that. Jesus, it's half gone. I am so scared, Jim, I don't want to face MIT or Sigma Nu or the USA. Each person has their own battle.

They are showing us a lot of nice factories around here. Silk thread, 70% export. Interesting questions, oh Jim I need you. It's cold here, really cold for a summer. But I cannot criticize the weather, for all of the weather is beautiful when one is at home—and I am at home.

I'm really tired, seriously exhausted, there are no free minutes anywhere. A hot bath, or even warm water, would be so fine. [A sentence from this letter has been removed at the request of Aras Vebra.] Jim, I would like to pour out my heart, but I don't think I could even if I were free to. When am I going to sort it all out, to take it apart and put it back together? In poetry, in the end? This is probably the last letter . . . I don't know if they are reaching you, touching you, and I am only beginning to realize my situation. I will see you soon, after you see this, my love.

I'm trying hard to live, and I'm well, and I love you.

Good dreams, dearest.

Vaiva