Tag Archives: Philosophical

Love letter # 423

I do not claim to know. Rather, I hope. I interpret what I believe to be the signs, yet I cannot know if I misread, or if my misty eyes are blind. However, in the light of such uncertainty, I ask myself this: how will it be if, years from now, I am still wracked with wondering? Which is the greater risk – knowledge or regret? ‘No’ may be a torment. ‘If only’ might be worse. And so, across the space between your heart and mine…this, the leap of declaration. For now I am pilgrim. Ready to arrive.

Love letter # 484

You fan the flames that I cannot explain. You ignite stars that make nights into days. But I love your sadness most of all. That heavenly breaking, temptation to fall. The clunking of doors and the creaking of boards. Dust on the mirror and drafts in the hall. Like rain in the summer, such unlikely jewels. This polish is scratched up, yet so beautiful. Shall we dance in the hush between siren and song, or make like we’re flawless…so shiny and dull?

Love letter # 699

In you, astonishment. The miracle of the other mirroring self. More than that, making self. You, the architect of me. The space that defines the point. The eternal, coalescing into now. The beauty of the particular, and the awe of the universal. As though I knew you all along. Call and response. As if the you and the I were the one and the two. This, our loving, the helicopter view. The melting and the reforming. The very action of being. The magnificent arc of our unbecoming. An apotheosis. A counter-intuitive divinity of oblivion. Oh you…I am.

Love letter # 642

You are doubtless wondering why I haven’t made a move on you. Perhaps you think I am not interested, or that I don’t ‘bat for your team’. Neither is true.

The fact is, I have dreamt of your touch for months now. I have imagined all manner of scenarios in which we are lovers. More than that, deeply, richly and fantastically in love. All the usuals; and maybe even a little more.

Now, I realise, you could think me a coward. This may indeed be true. I would call it prudence. Caution. Terror. I look back on the record and see a string of false starts, busted hearts and numerous no’s, and something inside me shivers. It’s like vertigo. Every instinct screaming at me to stop. Self-preservation kicking in big time. I know this means I’m missing out on the chance for something extraordinary – but until now I have been prepared to wear this cost.

Besides which, don’t we already know that this romance thing is hormonal fantasy; that the rom-com model of love everlasting is tissue box bullshit? Why would any sane person seek to measure themselves against such a ridiculous standard?

So, whenever I am awash with you, (which is often), I ask myself this question: what could possibly make this one any different? I have crashed at the altar of this promise so many times that I am effectively apostate. To be a pilgrim once more seems like a ritual of self-punishment. I mean, why would I?

You might say this is simply a well-articulated defence. A form of excuse. I will not deny that both are factoring into my decision to send you this letter. Partly, it is also true that I am hedging, trying to smoke you out. Reduce the gut churn. Save the fingernails.

I know it’s a little sneaky doing it this way; and I apologise for not making my feelings known either earlier or in the grand romantic fashion. But please, understand that even this is like jumping off a cliff for me. Because it could all end right here. Or begin.

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.