Love letter # 444

I am writing to you now, from the distance of forever, because from this far off vantage I can see at last. Like so many others I too was the fool of abstraction. I abandoned you for an idea. The myth of our selfish age. For the absurd and dehumanising notion that I could only ‘improve’ myself if I cut myself off from the very facts of my being – if I pursued the so called personal empowerment so beloved of TEDtalkers and self-help charlatans.

And having ascended their peak of spiritual awareness what did I find? Excuses for coldness, for thinly veiled cruelty. I gave up the love of a real person for the delusion of self.

How was it that I so readily fell for this naked ideological consumerism – for this capitalism of the soul? What sleight of hand made your love – my love – seem expendable and unevolved?

Fear.

Like almost everyone I knew, I too lived in the terror of the obvious and the vaulting denial it inspired. I was so desperately afraid of my own vulnerability, my very mortality and the basic fragility of my animal being, that I tried on any reasonable sounding sophistry that would hide me from my skin.

It was a lie for which I paid dearly. It has cost me the only truly sacred things available to earthly creatures like you and I. Love, tenderness, the knowing that comes from the knowing of others. These mirrors by which we see who we are. What we are. And how utterly beautiful that is.

This then is my long overdue acknowledgement. My acceptance of your humble wisdom. You offered me the flawed and wonderful treasures of intimacy and I spurned them for a kind of philosophical masturbation. I sought the impossible and punishing perfect and lost the warm and bloody reality of your lovely arms about me.

Knowing you, you will smile and thank me – remind me that my departure made room for another. Even so, I give you my apology and, at long last, an honest farewell – as opposed to a fearful retreat.

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For if you will take my hand …

We may well be lost. Broken. It may all be pointless. Doomed. This road we stumble down might lead to nowhere. Oblivion. Yet should you choose to walk this way with me … then, my angel, all beauty shall flower for you and I and we shall take our remaining steps as though carried by the slow moving and merciful wave that delivers all travellers to the glory of surrender. For if you will take my hand … everything. Just everything.

Love letter # 975

It’s not just that you have brought something vital and electrifying to my life but rather that your advent – and the fact of my loving you so – has transfigured the whole world. If I once thought it corny now I am in awe.

Today I walk in beauty. Tonight I shall sleep in the peace of my lover’s nearness. And in the morning, the mere fact that you will be right there beside me will fill me up like the bliss of breathing.

Such simple things – mundane almost – yet in the wake of your stunning arrival they too are like music. I hear their songs deep in the beating river of my heart and I stand ready to burst into the full throated aria of you and me.

They say that love reinvents everything, like some kind of emotional reboot function, and when I am next to you I feel it – clean, youthful and fresh with newborn purpose.

Until you, I never honestly thought these things possible. I hoped. I imagined. I wrote it off as hormones. With you – emboldened by the spark that fires up in your eyes – I have discovered a different brand of faith. No gods, no mantras, no absurd moral codes. Only that I believe in you as you believe in me.

Surely there’s a pretty good song in that. xx

Love letter # 338

Looking at your behaviour, (analysing your words, checking out your body language, noting what you seem to prioritise), it occurs to me that you may have it all wrong.

I do not love you for your money or your success – am not drawn to your status and apparent power. I care not for your gold chains; for what are they but expensively assembled shackles? I do not bleed for the bright lights you show me. I lose no sleep over bigger, better, brighter.

And your palace – that shiny, hard faced edifice you wall yourself behind – it is little than a pile of rocks made pretty. A decorated gaol.

So I look at you now and I wonder – who is this person? Are you still the one who sparkled so wonderfully? Was it you who sidled into my world with deep and connective beauty? Who said they would risk it all for the notion of us?

I only ask because sometimes that person seems like somebody else – and certainly not the career obsessed, supposedly strong, wealth accruing conformist who sits across from me now.

Tell me, when did our love become a routine; a sequence of expensive gifts and hard wrung promises? Something we squeezed in between flat screen TVs, bucket listing and retirement plans?

For this garbage, I shall never again wear these rings. For this shallow approximation of care I can no longer kneel.

Yet for the spark, the private truth, the compass we can still offer one another … everything and then some.

Our world mistakes the trappings for the substance and we have both played along and struggled against this. We damn well know this. How many nights have we lain together in exhausted recognition pondering this?

So why? Why gold and not love? Why success and not joy? Why the act but rarely the meaning?

Perhaps you can answer these questions, or at least address them in some truthful and hopeful way. Remind me of the human being beneath the outfit and of the vital contextualising details that help us to make sense of all the discrepancies.

I still see the one I love before me and there is still plenty of love left to go – but I will not spend it on shimmer or shine. Only for the simple signs of your heart. For who you truly are.

Love letter # 279

Each time I convince myself not to bother – reason one, excuse two, etcetera – you turn me round. Whenever I find myself walking away, you argue me back. Not with pleas or promises but with the irresistible power of your beauty. For though I see and feel all the obstacles stacked up against this, I also see your eyes. More than that – something deep and bordering on eternal. Something akin to the possibility of home. Harbour.

Yet maybe one day soon I will walk away – and this current determination will founder upon the rocks you withhold – but until then I will try to face you, to hold your gorgeous gaze a moment longer. To pick my way through the shadows by the light we can still both see by. To knock upon your door.

And for it to open …

Love letter # 304

We can do this, you know. All those external voices, the ones proffering their usual array of pre-digested objections – family, honour, class, culture – these are but the declarative choir of history, the pent up demand of billions of disappointed souls who said no and who now wish us to repeat their timid capitulation.

But why should we? The pressures that come from outside; they are abstractions. A catechism repeated by those in search of what they believe is a kind of safety. Well sure, there is a kind safety – but we the living are already guaranteed the hassle free rest of oblivion. I wonder then if we just might risk some dynamite before the whole damn thing crashes down. Do we have the guts for such fires? Do we have the steel for love?

If you can plant this tiny seed with me now then perhaps – sometime soon – we will find a little flower on our path. We will hear the song that breathes beneath the clamour. Sigh the sigh of oceans moving. Know the thing that only lovers know.

Though there is a world of expectation waiting outside, inside we can feel the difference. They have words – we have the spark they’re all talking about. What would you prefer?