“I sit here feeling a fool for even writing you. My obsession oft makes me feel sick with delusion and inappropriateness.
I feel I drive you crazy even from all this distance away.
Maybe that is why we are still apart?
I want to see you. I want to meet you, soon. I want to love you, even, in marriage of the heart; but only if I should and I know not yet what I ought.
My anxiety (concerning you) is great; my insanity greater.
You may never even read these letters! And indeed I feel it sadly in my heart that this is true.
I may never even meet you or know you beyond what knowledge and comprehension and understanding I have of you now, in this sum of time.
I was going to address you in this letter beseeching that you find me and speak to me and search for me,
but how silly and delusional is that?!
You must be a fantasy.
And what a sad thing that is to say after the beautiful and assuring love we shared once upon a time!
How crazy I’d think it if I’d been told before that we would be separated! At that time, I wouldn’t have, couldn’t have, believed it; for we were so real and tangible and true.
But tangibility only lives within the time it is birthed and begins and continues. It lives in present moments, not in memory nor the future.
Tangibility only exists as it occurs, and never beyond that.
How silly of me to think it permanent, for even tangibility itself is impermanent! Unless constant and unwavering.
Just as love, and such as these things, tangibility waivers and is so frail in the world. Neverlasting, neverlasting.
I think that is why there is such greed for it. Such greed for this and love. Jealousy even. For the man or woman who possesses tangibility, in that moment, has gold–a treasure no other man or woman has.
And when one does not feel it immediately, it is as lost and gone. For when the touch recedes–the touch of tangibility–it is no more.
For it can only be felt as it happens and as it goes on.
It is a delicate connection; one easily broken. It is as mortal and measured and bound and cursed by time as the humans who engage in it. Cursed by inconstancy and threat of loss. But this is also one oh so sought after.
How painful to be without touch! How empty is the absence of tangibility! And this is why my insanity is delicate, and my sanity frail.
I know I mustn’t lean on such–all these finite and cursed things–but oh, I have skin too! I am human and fleshen and full of blood; as human as humanity is cursed to.
My veins pump the bitter water of life–the flow that stings–running red, it aches and pains and is angered by and after love and tangibility and the absences of such.
Oh, sweet love it relies on–all my veins–I am doused in need and full of this swelling humanity! This doom of us collectively.
It pains me that so human I am.
But you do not want to hear my ramblings of how I am a vessel of independance (and this because I drink of it, not because I am it. For I am as dependent as the heavens have damned humanity to. The heavens love being such a hero, you know, that they made humans frail and helpless, dependent, insane, and drunken and delusional, fleshen and full of the pain of blood). So delicate and mortal and cursed are we–us, humanity.
Alas, I exhaust words. Not in mind, but in energy to decipher and write such.
So, I say what I commenced and set out to say:
‘I miss you and please contact me soon if it is your will that we ever do meet and touch and love, so that I must not wait for another eternity.’
With love, and unfortunate intensity,