I want to talk to you. It's a desire that perhaps my heart shall long forever. I want to sit beside you and talk to you, about anything, whatever it may be. May it be the most hurtful things or things that don’t interest me, it shall not matter. I want to make a conversation with you since I can’t make love. I just want to listen to your voice, see your lips move, look at you exist. Imagining you to be around me, talking to me is enough to tame me. To rescue me from the depths of my madness. My wild demeanor shall wear off the moment you pat my head with love and compassion. I have no respect or love for myself, because of all the things I have lost in life, I have lost you too. I don’t know how or why. Loss cannot be explained but just repented. I try to understand you but you sound just as hollow as I used to sound once. You are like an echo of my past now. May it be an echo, but still talk to me. I am exhausted and hopeless. Come redeem me, talk to me if you may. I will wait inside a cacoon made of evil thoughts and hatred. Only you may come and retrieve my goodness. I have lived a meaningless life without virtue. I feel as if everything shall just be fine, if only I may talk to you. I hate language, I always have. But, what can I do but talk? What can I do but hope for words of reassurance? In some world I shall exist again; A world without language and with hope. Until then I shall burn this world down with my painful wails of desperation.
I wrote her long texts. I whined a lot, she said. I told her about home, about how my life is, about how i felt about her.
There are some particular nights when it hits me, I keep myself busy though, with books and gardening. I dream a lot; I smile often even when i dont feel like it, I help, I joke around. Then at night, I still writ her long texts; I would have preferred letters more but yet texts it is. She told me my long texts were annoying, probably she never even read them. I am not her type actually, I am not…. so vibrant. I am faded. I am more insecure, more doubtful and yet I try a lot. I am not myself.
I feel very helpless though,
Its ofcourse not love.
I read Dante’s “Devine Comedy” when I was young, I was fascinated by that book.
Some obsessions never end, I fear this won’t be one such. I see her face now.. elegant with middle-parted hair.. smiling… even though she shall never smile at me. I see her ardent eyes.
I shall lay my guard down now, I shall let it be, I shall not try too much.
Yet, I write you these all… In another long text at your blocked contact.
Another long text, sent but never to be received.
Another long text, to the void.
Mostly, I think of you when I am alone and tired of thinking about things that make me sad. I think of you; I think of why I think of you. I do not know you, you clearly never even wanted me to know you. There was no magic, no talking through the eyes. Here we are, two people as straight as parallel lines, obscure of one another’s existence while I try to intersect each time. Perhaps, you are the face to all my un-tamed passion, perhaps the abstract idea of love I made up in my mind. I imagined an unknown face I can never recall as I read poems and tales of love, but lately, that face is yours. Perhaps, you are an illusion; often I think of how you might pass your day, often I think if you think of me and laugh at myself, often I imagine us in situations that are never to occur, in places we shall never be, saying words we will never share. I sometimes want to imagine you all I can, I want to remember your face forever, every expression, every smile, every blink of your eye shall be a flawless construct of my mind. As forever you shall be the illusion of my life as without you nor the sunlight in winter and neither the rain in spring shall truly make me content.