Y is the penultimate letter of the alphabet, although it also seems to be the first of my own version of it. My parents told me that I was, as a child, always asking «pourquoi?», «pourquoi?»; you see, I was born a French little boy. Y is "Why?" in English, which is "pourquoi" in French.
When I decided to leave 𝕏, I went to 𝕐 instead.
It is also the last letter of my name. It is almost the beginning of the end. Y is the last thing I'll get to experience, with its open arms raised to the moon, but never to close and embrace, before I leave to meet the big Z. It is the forbidden letter, the one I cannot complete, the one that will remain, for me, forever alone, never fulfilled, never turned into a word, into a world, never in a poem, in a missive, in a greetings.
Y on its own gets to find a lot of other letters, to fill up its own void. But to me, Y, at the end, at the beginning, everywhere, is the only letter of the alphabet.
I wonder why. I wonder why.
I wonder why I wonder.
I wonder why I wonder why
I wonder why I wonder!
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