Monday, June 20, 2005
When I was young, I made up a lover to keep me alive, to fill my spaces, to take away my oh so fashionable sorrow; a lover who would substitute for loneliness. But over the years, I have grown along with this lover of mine, and we have moved to planes that exist no more in reality. He has become a man who holds me with the wait in his eyes; who knows all of my heart but doesn't use it against me; who does not ask of me, only because he understands that everything is better when it is offered; who grants me solitude, but in whose presence solitude fails to entice; who loves the friction of all my corners and edges; a man who shows me love aside of its selfish demands. I've spent what little of my life saving all my love for a you with no name, no shape, no face as the world would conceive. And some may call me romantic, and some may call me stupid, and some may think me proud for holding my standards so high up in the skies. But all I want is a lover who won't spend my tears like the rain, a lover who won't cost me the price of all my porcelain walls.
And so I'm sorry that I could not love you in its purest, because I had dreamt up a love far too involved than I'd expected when it had first begun. I'm sorry that I could not save you kisses or embraces, that I could not warm the empty side of your bed, that I could not hold you when you were weak and broken, that I could not learn to be content with the magnitude you so generously offered me; I am sorry that you only always had part of me for I made far too many reservations for this lover who does not exist. And perhaps it is no longer of importance, but I found myself amidst all these letters unsent, and it was strange to find that the hesitation that accompanied their conception was no more. And so I offer them up to you, in all honesty and with utmost care, for this is all I have left as artifact of the things that have transpired.
J., your words were so beautiful that they made the necessary unnecessary and the important seem so trivial. Perhaps you are right in that we've only ever allowed each other to see the things that we wanted. How powerful and lovely the thoughts presented by a selecting hand and an editing eye. The odds were never in our favour, but secretly we both knew that words would never be enough to cover the distances that were set between us. It's wondrous how we have turned out to be friends, for I could not imagine us better anyway else, definitely not so if we had remained strangers.
I., everything is so easy with you, and though we may be the most casual of friends, every so often, you still send shivers up and down my spine. For a long time, I wished great things for you and I, and I admit that part of me still harbours hope, but only one that is fading with every missed encounter as the years go by. But I see now that I played a one-sided game of hearts with you, and though once upon a time, that would have been enough for me, I have long outgrown the rabbit and the madhatter combined. I will always say that you meant so much to me because I met you under His eye, yes, I met you under His eye, and I thought that if anything, He could make it right.
K., being with you helped me discover anew how speed is a dangerous thing, for when anything moves that fast, it is bound to crash into something else. I am sorry that the wall we inevitably ended up colliding into was the one I put up to keep you outside. I know my mazes well, I have run so long in them, and you couldn't find the doors to get to me. We were all the right things without all the right reasons. I was your cure to loneliness, and you were mine to devastation. And I will inevitably regret the way I ended things, but the shame of my deperation still haunts me with your every mention. My guilt is more than you and I can ever bear, so they are right when they said that I took the easy way out, I ran.
T., you are what they call a conundrum of sorts. I haven't learnt to figure you out, but I have come to terms with knowing that I never will. I sometimes wish I could take a peek into your head, see all those things you brood about, all your little secrets, so that I could learn to grasp the mechanics of your mind. You are the epitome of all things right in a package of all things wrong for me; you are everything that would be nice to call mine, but without all the things that I am. You play in every respect of the word, you have little bouts of darkness, you made me stutter, you are gorgeous, but then you already knew that; -- you were hers. If anything, it is hard to want something that belongs to someone else. I could not afford you. I hope she makes you happy.
There is so much more that had been scribbled down in a mad rush, but there is nothing more of any significance, there is nothing more that you need to know. Letters unsent I've got plenty, but letters revealed [and edited(:] now counting four.
sherry @ 12:20:00 pm
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