Tag Archives: Philosophical

Love letter # 412

I write this to have it said. To give it the shape of language. Tomorrow I may think it mere venting but today I am impelled. Emboldened by your absence; or rather, by the ways in which I have lately been reminded of you. The circles around me, the orbiting others, the noises they make, the poses they strike.

They are not you – perhaps this is the nub of it. They don’t have your eyes. Your truthful voice, your subtle knowing. Theirs is a show, something they don’t mean. Words are just that – sounds with no follow through. Their spectacle of kindness is an act of violence in disguise. They approximate the rituals of understanding, but it is little more than pity, or worse, control.

I speak with them, nod and smile, raise my glass and wonder where you are. Knowing you’re not anywhere. And that I am truly nowhere with you. For here is a shell of a place.

So I walk with the marionettes, acting in their drama. The empty performance of time filling. Motion as distraction. The gestures, the lies, the denial. And so it goes. On and on. Thinking impossible things. Knowing it could have gone another way…but it didn’t.

This then, the outcome. Result of our choosing. We thought we knew better. Turns out not. Yes, this is why I write. The intolerable scourge of mirrors. No, these are not angel wings, just the dust of costume. The plain mask of skin, obscuring the reality of blood.

Love letter # 415

So the fantasy is no longer viable. The ideal ‘us’ revealed as a construction; mostly of lust and other longings. It kept us going for years. Until recently. Now its lustre has cracked to texture, its flame dwindled to flint. Yet what if, in waking, we discovered something more potent than hormonal dreams and daily habit? Suppose we opened our eyes to find ourselves in a sparse room. No decorative flourishes – just us. What then? What now? Will we recognise one another and like what we see? There is only one way to find out. So let’s wake up.

Love letter # 369

Please do not be fooled by my hesitation, or by any apparent coolness. I do like you. Actually, a little bit more than like you. It’s just that, until now, I have stopped short of obvious display; preferring the safety of hints. It’s not that I don’t want you to know, it’s that I don’t want to hear no.

You might think this weak – perhaps it is – but lately I have decided not to lay myself bare in the way I once did. The reasons for this won’t surprise you. Serial rejections, of course, but also manipulation. My feelings used against me.

But that’s not all. I have become content like this; by which I mean single. It is cleaner, easier; and while it may be less colourful, less urgent, it is also less dishonest, less compromised. More than that though, I have abandoned the dysfunctional delusions of need and romance. So however much I like you, want you, I will not sell my soul to stand at your side. I will not beg. Neither shall I submit to games or tests of valour. The lies of courting would insult us both, so let’s not go there.

Basically, I’m too tired and old and jaded for games – and maybe I am too bruised for the battle of pursuit. I just want it to happen or not happen. I know I could have written you a more poetic letter, made a more classical gesture, but if I’m honest I would much prefer it if you turned out to be the kind of person who responded to a letter like this. And this is the best way for me to find out.

Love letter # 410

I am writing to thank you; but also to apologise. The latter is because I am breaking my silence, the former is because you give me the only reason to do so.

The bare truth of the matter is that our brief exchanges – your smiles, those hugs you give me, the touches – remind me. They are, shall we shall say, the solitary snowflakes of a barren season. They represent the only thing vaguely approaching the kind of attention that I have almost forgotten. For even if the effect melts away and is unintended, it is a beautiful dusting while it lasts.

But I am no fool, no mad hormonal fantasist. I know you are simply being friendly – but if sometimes I seem to lapse into a foggy bumbling clumsiness it is because when you are next to me my composure turns to slush. I think perhaps it is simply the fact of being seen, being even briefly selected, (so unusual of late), that breaches the wall of compromise I have so carefully constructed.

And really, here it is – the ‘why’ of this letter. It’s a plea to you and a warning for me. Not so close. Not unless.

But then again, maybe even that would be too much.

Love letter # 366

I never really stopped loving you. Didn’t get the chance to. Which leaves the memory of you relatively untarnished; still lustrous, still the nigh miraculous possibility. The drudgery of years and the cooling of fires never applied to you. You left before ordinary set in. Maybe that was prescient of you.

In the silence that remained you quietly flowered, such that, though I have neither heard from nor seen you for many a season, you are today the ever-fruiting branch. All blossom and sugars. Every day resplendent in sunshine. The perfection that, as we both know could never be sustained by real human beings.

Yet perhaps I would trade this fantasy for an hour at your side. For a word. For questions answered or rendered irrelevant. Because it may well be that the flesh and the blood, the skin and the scent, your breath and your form are all the more wonderful than these gossamer dreams. Are we ready for our manifold flaws? For who and what we are? For the death of desire – or its reboot?

Maybe I’ll never know. Or you won’t care and it won’t matter. This could well be a waste of keystrokes.

Unless of course…

Love letter # 420

Hey, this might be little more than a ‘friends with benefits’ thing but we can call it love if we want. After all, it is just a word, a symbol of something shared between people, an indicator of something more special than the merely average or convenient. Sure, we can shy away from it if you like, if its association with adolescent fantasy and/or the various ‘isms’ and ‘ologies’ bothers you, but I for one am ready to use the so-called L bomb. Because really, when I strip out the external noise, I do love you; if that’s an okay thing to confess these days.

Love letter to the girl in the beautiful dress

I noticed you earlier in town. I was idling over a long black, not really doing anything, when you emerged from the city throng, like a vessel long ensnared beneath, afloat at last. Bathed in light.

We did not speak. Nary a glance was passed between us. You just sat nearby, took out a notebook and, deep in thought, scratched out whatever was on your mind. Nothing spectacular. No toss of a golden mane. No curvaceous swagger. But oh what a beautiful dress you had on.

In truth, this is what I noticed first. The gorgeous flow of light floral patterned material. Hem just above the knee. Showing off your lovely form, accenting the cool alabaster of your skin and the lustrous sable of your long hair. Truly, you cut such an elegant figure; so subtle, with a femininity refined and assured. How you stood out from the parade, floated above the commonplace slurry of fashion trash. Such a glorious, understated enigma.

And then, a few minutes later, your task complete, you got up, paused as though to take stock, and walked away. Within thirty seconds I had lost track of you, the fleeting vision of your grace, subsumed once more. The girl in the beautiful dress – swallowed by the drab, city street heave.

Of course, you will never know. Truth is, you will likely never think again of those slow minutes this afternoon, when your pen moved in swirls and the eye of the beholder was entranced. You just went about your day, never knowing that, hours later, a trace of your splendour would still be flowering in the heart and the fancy of a man you will never know. That the mere sight you, in that simple, fetching dress has left the imprint of beauty on the world.