My blessed love!
O, how I miss you! I sit here and think about you all the time. My mind wanders and gets lost whenever I imagine you. I wish I could wrap my arms around you and caress you gently. How I long to express myself to you. I hope that, one day, I would be able to tell you how I feel. I feel…like a clock that is broken, a machine with rusted-through gears, a handcuffed policeman, a lover without his love.
I am so restless.
I do wish that you would give me a chance to get to know you; a chance to allow myself to become visible to you. I hope to wrap my arms around you and I hope to embrace you whole. To know that you are safe from all others, me included. I am exhausted. You are the only love to which I go back to. I have tried to forget you—but it never works. I am sending you these flowers in the cold gloom of September. They are yellow lilies. Yellow for they are to bring sunshine to your life. I dream to make you smile. I beg for you to give me a second of your time. That is all that I ask for. I do not have much else to tell you but this: I am yours. It matters not to me what comes. I have placed my heart, soul, and mind on you. And you alone. I know that you will never read this letter of mine. I have hidden myself like an idiot beneath layers of facades. I have tried my hardest to hide any goodness I have. I did this for you. You see, I don’t believe myself to be a good…—I could never be a regular person. I will never serve society the way most people do. I hid for I gave you up, my Regine Olsen. I gave you up, my Isaac. You are the pearl of great price. I sold everything—I sold and betrayed my pride! I made myself out to be an evil man. For you have I done this. I sold my soul for you. Not because I gained riches; no, but because I have fallen for you. I have found no one else who could replace you, my muse. You are the one who had inspired me. And yet. I should have been kinder to you—I should have been myself! But how could I? I would make you fall in love so easily.
I am probably insane.
This is now the fifth bouquet of flowers that I am sending you. The mark of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results, according to Albert Einstein. I have sent you flowers before and have not received a response. I assume that you see me as some kind of Frankenstein. And, by all means, that was my whole plan. I spent months perfecting it. I examined myself in these past couple of months and have found myself wanting—wanting you! Maybe this obsession is the end of me. Maybe. But I cannot help myself. I have tried. Believe me, I have tried to let you go. Do you really believe that this is easy for me? I beg you to see me as a mere weakling human being. I am dust and ashes. But, oh, how I love! You would be taken care of. All that I have would become yours. Every breath I breathe is for two—for me and for you. I am restless. Please respond to this letter as soon as you receive it—for I will never send it. I am a man, funny, of immense faith. I have faith in you, my love. Tenderly do I love you and gently. Patiently do I wait for you—like Jacob and Rachel. You are my Rachel. I have found you alone to be my delight. You brighten my mind and my heart! You alone make me want to live—you make me want to go on. I hope in you. I hope that God would bring you to me. May his blessing be upon us. (There I used that mystical and unifying term “us.”) I know that, as of now, you do not feel anything towards me. The reason being that I frightened you. I am sorry. I have trouble expressing myself sometimes. Had you given me a chance! One second of your life for mine—and I would convince you! I would convince you of the authenticity of this calling. Like Abraham, I am (and already have) taking a leap of faith. You are that leap. I hope that this bouquet would set your spirits right. I hope that they make you smile, L———. You know, you are my one and only. Forgive me for failing to express myself to you in person. I am much too shy of a person. Please forgive me and my passion. If this letter ever finds you, may it be like the dew of Zion upon the deserts of Arabia. May this letter bring you joy to know that someone else is thinking good thoughts of you. I remember you like an ever-present memory, so are you to me. I see you in my mind’s eye like yesterday. You are so lovely. Your dirty blonde hair falls upon your slender shoulders. Your green eyes shine forth like candles from a citadel. Your hands are coy and they hang there like the Hanging Gardens of Babylon. Ah, but your smile—it is of infinite importance to me. I am forever yours. I still remember everything. You are standing there, a hundred or so feet away from me, leaning against the wall, surrounded by all of your friends. Your dress is green, like the sea, matching the eternal depth of your eyes. Your curly hips betray an irresistible temptation. Your voluptuous lips are moist and pregnant with absolute lust. Words simply cannot describe the attraction. Every fiber in me wants to be with you; wants to be in you. Your cheekbones remind me of suicidal cliffs (if I fall into temptation)—if I place my lips and graze upon your mountains, I will surely die. Who has returned from that journey? Is there anyone, my precious, who could resist you? I surely cannot! But I do. I stand in your presence, far from your presence, shy and weak.
I could never be your seducer.
I could never be the one who rejuvenates you with his fountains. But to drink of you! To be the one who dips his lips in the fullness of your rich mouth. I would caress you tenderly with seducing hands. I would graze upon the hills of your milky breasts. My tongue would never tire as it explores trails which lead to your mountainous peaks. Your breasts would satisfy me at all times. But that is all me. My imagination. You would never see me in the way that I see you. My desire is great for you, my love. Give me a chance. Give me a second of your time. But you are unapproachable. You are surrounded by people who pretend to pay attention. They are your distractors, keeping you from me. Suffice it to say that you are mine. I have claimed you. I hope that you can understand me when you meet me. For meet me you will! C’est la vie!
Ah, but the object of my affections—so we meet again!
You know, my love, you are, quite literally, the object of my love. I look at you and imagine what we could be like. I imagine us together and think about all the things that we could do. Somewhere, someplace where the sun never sets; where the wind is always warm; where the fires of love never fail; where the sand wrinkles softly against your toes.
Ah, I imagine.
I see us walking hand in hand along a sunset beach; where nothing but your hands matter; where nothing but your gentle embrace sets acres on fire. Ah, then there is your gaze. You look at me through your velvet green eyes—eyes that observe nothing but goodness. The hair falls over your temples, covering the radiant beauty of a part of your face. There. That is how I want to remember you best. I don’t want anything to taint you, my Mona Lisa. Your architecture is of stunning quality; your architect is a talented one. You alone have been given the gift of beauty. I have set my eyes on you. My heart has chosen you; my sense of beauty has been consummated in you. You lack nothing, my love. There simply is no flaw in you. All of the world’s beauty finds perfection in you—not a single atom remains untouched and unconsumed by you. You, my love, are beyond comparison. The gods had a field day when they formed you—yet they created me, too, your committed lover. You lack nothing—but this you do not know. For you lack one thing: me. In lacking me, you lack everything. For it is I who see you. It is I who notice you. My eyes have been created to see you as you are. My eyes hold the keys to your beauty. I alone am able to discover you. You are mine, for I have chosen you. My heart still aches and churns for you—I age for you. So much ambivalence! I seek to understand myself and merely find my reflection in you. I seek to let you…but you have consumed me whole. There are no words left for me to write. I have lost all the consonants. I am not sure. Will I ever be able to convince you with my letters? Will you ever take the time to read them? Will you ever, in your fairy tale life, choose me as I have chosen you? Don’t you see me? I crave you.
My blessed love!