Letter
Letter.
My beloved,
I know it has been long. It hasn't been a little long, it has been much too long, and yet not enough for my feelings to fade away. I know the pages of or story have gone yellow of all the time and the longing, that they might break if I try and read them again, and I know that, into the night, into the darkness, you have forgotten me. Layers of fog, layers of time, together with your untimely fall into the darkness, have done much so that I became only a part of oblivion, a smaller or a bigger part. And if I am but part of oblivion, I do not care whether this part is smaller or bigger. Maybe you have really forgotten me, even though you promised, as I now remember , that you shall never forget my "face of a naive child" and my "overly lively eyes".
Can you see? I remember every word you ever spoke to me, let alone your face of an angel and of a demon, your voice or your odor of paints and pencils. I can see. And even though it hurts, it hurts badly, I could not live without feeling this, without remembering what I remember. Memories. That's all.
I still roam the ancient chest, I still turn old pages, I search for details, I long to find things that escape my only human memory, I try to rediscover. But so many times I wonder if I am not tiring my soul for nothing... If there's still anything to find. And, especially, if I do find something, if having my soul completely barren isn't too big a price. And, badly enough, I know, deep down, that there is nothing more yet to be found, and still I know that what I feel is perfectly endless, even if everything seems to end here.
I want a reason, at least a reason, a rational thing to show me, that yes, that this is my whole life. I am looking for ration where ration will never be found, I'm looking for ration in love. I know it's wrong, but I would like to know whether my life is destined to be nothing else beyond love for you... Because, my beloved, even if our book has been long closed, I am nothing, nothing besides love for you. How can love and the nothing, the void be the same thing, as I dare put them, I do not know. I, plain, colorless person, dare think of things that are so supreme. I should be, and I am, simply happy to have ever been allowed to feel what I'm feeling.
I allow the heavy lids to go down. I'm tired of feeling... two iced tears defy my will and go down my cheeks, on their way to my heart. They are desperately searching for my heart, like I search for you into my bitter-sweet dreams, like I search for reason in love, like I search for sense into the sense-less.
From our love, from you, my dear, not much is left, materially. Only moments plastically caught on shiny, strong paper, which show smiling faces that I don't seem to recognize. Us two probably... maybe we were happy or maybe we were faking it for the sake of the photographer. All else from you, I have hidden, so I do not cry all of the time.
But there are scents printed upon my skin, there are your fingerprints carved into my flesh, where you kissed me, caressed me or held me. Your whole being can be felt all over around me.
But you are nowhere. You're but a chimera, haunting my pointless life! You explain my foolish heart that chimeras are not to be loved with my whole being! Make me comprehend that everything is long over, that from all the love that I was, I am left pure nothing. You maintain the life of this nothing! You may call me selfish, which you know I am. I am speaking only about me, about what I'm feeling, about what is left of me. But who am I to speak about if you are no longer here?
You're resting now. You have finally been allowed the sleep you so longed, the sleep you had not. I can only hope, I can only imagine, that you still exist, somewhere, somehow, that I' loving a soul. I can only hope I'm not in love with a memory.
Forever is a lie, me.
I know it has been long. It hasn't been a little long, it has been much too long, and yet not enough for my feelings to fade away. I know the pages of or story have gone yellow of all the time and the longing, that they might break if I try and read them again, and I know that, into the night, into the darkness, you have forgotten me. Layers of fog, layers of time, together with your untimely fall into the darkness, have done much so that I became only a part of oblivion, a smaller or a bigger part. And if I am but part of oblivion, I do not care whether this part is smaller or bigger. Maybe you have really forgotten me, even though you promised, as I now remember , that you shall never forget my "face of a naive child" and my "overly lively eyes".
Can you see? I remember every word you ever spoke to me, let alone your face of an angel and of a demon, your voice or your odor of paints and pencils. I can see. And even though it hurts, it hurts badly, I could not live without feeling this, without remembering what I remember. Memories. That's all.
I still roam the ancient chest, I still turn old pages, I search for details, I long to find things that escape my only human memory, I try to rediscover. But so many times I wonder if I am not tiring my soul for nothing... If there's still anything to find. And, especially, if I do find something, if having my soul completely barren isn't too big a price. And, badly enough, I know, deep down, that there is nothing more yet to be found, and still I know that what I feel is perfectly endless, even if everything seems to end here.
I want a reason, at least a reason, a rational thing to show me, that yes, that this is my whole life. I am looking for ration where ration will never be found, I'm looking for ration in love. I know it's wrong, but I would like to know whether my life is destined to be nothing else beyond love for you... Because, my beloved, even if our book has been long closed, I am nothing, nothing besides love for you. How can love and the nothing, the void be the same thing, as I dare put them, I do not know. I, plain, colorless person, dare think of things that are so supreme. I should be, and I am, simply happy to have ever been allowed to feel what I'm feeling.
I allow the heavy lids to go down. I'm tired of feeling... two iced tears defy my will and go down my cheeks, on their way to my heart. They are desperately searching for my heart, like I search for you into my bitter-sweet dreams, like I search for reason in love, like I search for sense into the sense-less.
From our love, from you, my dear, not much is left, materially. Only moments plastically caught on shiny, strong paper, which show smiling faces that I don't seem to recognize. Us two probably... maybe we were happy or maybe we were faking it for the sake of the photographer. All else from you, I have hidden, so I do not cry all of the time.
But there are scents printed upon my skin, there are your fingerprints carved into my flesh, where you kissed me, caressed me or held me. Your whole being can be felt all over around me.
But you are nowhere. You're but a chimera, haunting my pointless life! You explain my foolish heart that chimeras are not to be loved with my whole being! Make me comprehend that everything is long over, that from all the love that I was, I am left pure nothing. You maintain the life of this nothing! You may call me selfish, which you know I am. I am speaking only about me, about what I'm feeling, about what is left of me. But who am I to speak about if you are no longer here?
You're resting now. You have finally been allowed the sleep you so longed, the sleep you had not. I can only hope, I can only imagine, that you still exist, somewhere, somehow, that I' loving a soul. I can only hope I'm not in love with a memory.
Forever is a lie, me.