Love letter # 717

And so it has come to this. The bridge that will not be crossed. The line that separates the wishing from the will not be. Yet although I have been here so many times before, I too am rent as though by newly inflicted wounds. For I know so well your side of the line. I know it like the memory of knives. Like blood pouring out so hard and dreadful you want to let it run to the very end. Till everything is washed away. That I should now be the carver of such cuts will surely set those ancient floods in motion once more.

Of course I did not mean this. Of course I hoped we might not arrive at this awful precipice. I felt so good in your presence, so seen by you, that I wanted it continue. Perhaps this was foolish. Selfish. It did not seem so at the time – but I concede that it may have proven so.

Yet for all that, here we are. With the brute animal fact before us. That for all of our absurd posturing, our dressing it up, our pretending we are somehow something other than what we are, desire is not a polite and constructed destination but an ocean far deeper than any philosophy we might dream of or insight we might proclaim. The river is made of blood. The castle built from bone. And dreams are made of skin. So easily torn.

I too have looked at another and wondered. How? What? Why the fuck not? Like you, I have scratched at the hard surface of love and rejection and found no satisfactory answers. Because there are no answers. No logical or ethical reasons. No conscious criteria.

So I will not insult you with a bogus explanation or political apology. You feel the way you feel and I feel the way I feel. Sure, we might try to conjure up nice, middle class theories about this but in the end they are all a denial. A way to paper over what all we fear. That sex, that desire, even love itself spring from wells we cannot control with neatly packaged ideas or the vanity of our so-called enlightenment. That in their narcotic thrall each of us shall surely fall.

I am in pain today but I know that yours is hotter. Darker. Perhaps full of fury. I have stood many times at that gate, waiting and hoping, trying one more time, turning over one more stone. Because of this I know that there can be no consolation prize. No quietly suffering nearness. If I were you I would be doing exactly the same right now.

Au revoir, my friend. I know there is nothing I can say, so I will say nothing more.

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Paul Ransom is the love letter guy.

He’s been writing love letters all his life – okay well, since about the age of ten. Then, in 2010 he got inspired (by a beautiful femme fatale, no less) to create a blog of love letters. The last time we checked he had posted over 450 letters to this Free Love Letters site.

Then, in early 2017, he decided to bite the bullet and offer his services as a love letter writer for hire. So, if you’re lost for words, or they just won’t come out right, Paul is your guy.

CONTACT PAUL here: Email

 

Here’s how it happens:

  • You contact Paul
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Paul can do classic ‘I love you’ stuff and sexy billets doux, as well break-up letters, sorry darlings and high concept philosophical and spiritual stuff. Oh yeah, and things like gender and sexual preference do not phase him at all. Love is love, as far as he’s concerned.

(What all this says about his state of mind, we’ll leave you to speculate – but point being, he seriously gets this love thing.)

 

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Love letter # 447

Time may well have washed us all away, eroded every last vestige of us and consigned that very idea to photo albums and dusty keepsakes, but there is still a room inside me filled with a kind of light; and even though I realise the utter pointlessness of regret there are still moments when the truth of my erstwhile complacency is nearly unbearable.

In these moments I ask myself what kind of blindness I was afflicted with – why could I not see what was right beside me? What form of the ideal was I scanning the horizon for? What illusory ‘other’ kept my gaze fixed in space? No wonder you turned aside.

However, I will spare you the drama of my self-reproach and say instead that I am truly sorry for my arrogant assumption that you would never leave. Not only did it rot the foundation of us but it has polluted the air of what followed. For both of us. I sense it in newly formed fears. In the holding back of love. In episodes of despair. In the loss of once unshakable belief.

I hear all this in your voice whenever we speak. Even read it in between the lines of emails. Perhaps I am over stating it here but it seems like we are not only older but lonelier; and although I understand that I am not entirely to blame (and that blame itself is not the best reflex) I can no longer deny that my lazy assumptions and lack of genuine effort and attention contributed massively to the corrosion of our once exceptional union. For this I apologise unreservedly.

Love letter # 396

There is no law – no God, no ruling, no ethical injunction, no spiritual brownie points to be gained – nothing that says you have to want this. This is I shall give to you freely, but only if you will freely accept it. I will offer no argument, make no case, perform no empty rituals. I shall bring no gifts as bribes. Neither shall I make you promises that cannot be reasonably upheld. I simply offer this incredible love blooming inside me – so beautiful it is bursting out of me as I write, surging in my blood like the liberating splendour of light. It feels like a kind of rapture. Sounds like a song in my heart. Will you nurture it with me? Will you? Will you?