It inspires as much curiosity in me as I imagine it does in you; this daring proclamation of all that I feel towards you.
I can barely understand my actions. I know that to reveal to all prying eyes the contents of my emotional orb is to risk the collapse of my outwardly persona. How shall people think of me when they read of these melancholic cries, which on one hand seems so deserving of pity, but on the other, for its cowardice and queerness a slight disgust? Though I may present myself as a citizen of normalcy, their knowledge of my writings shall have forewarned them to not be taken in by my presentation; that beneath this modest skin lies something chilling and unnatural. Yes, even you, Fraulein, kindest of kind souls, ever so scare in slander, might begin to think me strange. All of this fares terribly for me, and it would be immensely wise, we both know, to rid my pen of this overly expressive habit. And yet, I cannot bring myself to do it.
I simply have not the fortitude to contain these boisterous emotions. I need a listening ear; to listen to all the troubles that daily haunt me. And what better way to go about this than to write under the illusion of privacy, only to have it disappear the moment you set down your final word. The world shall come to know of your secrets by ‘accident’. Or maybe I simply wish to speak to you but have neither the courage nor words which seem suitable and ample in intrigue. This is the only form of communication that occupies the space between us, and it is enough to keep me from displeasure.
If everything which I have hitherto written sounds to you as lacking in structure or a focused motive, as a passionate, fanatical verbiage, then it must be. The pen in unraveling the riddles of the heart, often ignores the mind. Nonetheless, the curiosity remains; and I will likely spend the coming days pondering the point of these letters.