What a fascinating coincidence! That as I re-read one of your messages, I found in one of your words – a common word, a word easily misspelled because of our being too familiar with it – an error which I myself have in the recent while been making quite frequently. You had omitted the final letter of the three-lettered word. I think it was the haste with which you typed your thoughts. So too it is haste which occasionally forces me into this error. The observers might probably think this all a fancy of the imagination: “Who is spellbound by a flower-de-luce shall readily believe every dust flake that lands on his hand to be a grain of sweet pollen.” But, still, what a fascinating coincidence!
Observe, the joy and sadness your presence brings to me! For on one hand, your spirited self delights every fiber in me, but on other, that I shall never hold you close torments me like freedom torments the prisoner – it lies merely a breath away, that azure vastness, and yet a series of cold, callous bars separates him from it. I doubt I shall ever stop feeling this way; or at least not until, as I imagine my passion shall eventually relent, you find a person to whom you are willing to promise love and devotion. So it must be, that I, like the prisoner, ought to turn my sight away from that unreachable beauty and find repose in other things, in the books which have been so kindly furnished us or the silence in which we may find celestial solace.
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.
I’m afraid that if you come to learn of the immense distance with which I have separated myself from the faith, you shall be begin to think me a cold, insolent, heartlessly methodical creature. Rightly so. For faith has many times restored you from a state of desolation to the lark full of gaiety you naturally are. It has given you comfort and joy; crackled as a tender fireplace as you pass through the storms and blizzards of life. All these I have gathered from your earnest words. I thus imagine that if I told how I can no longer find any joy in this faith, how I have begun to consider it purposeless, you shall be greatly perplexed: “how could such a thing which I treasure with all my heart mean nothing to you?” And because it is a collection of all those positive symbols, warmth, love, wonderment, I shall appear to you as the pitiable, antithetical foreigner – cold, unfeeling and insipid.
Should I meet you again some day, just the both of us, I will not hide my character behind practiced witticism or a wizardly confidence, but reveal to you who I truly am. I shall speak of the things that I usually speak of and shall keep silent, as according to my usual reticence, when I have nothing on my mind or when I simply wish for a silent pause. It is pointless to be an actor in front of whom I wish to be a fellow audience – a companion to enjoy this great theatrical called “life” with. If you do not laugh at my jokes or find me interesting, or worse, find me queer, then so it shall be. I may very well will be driven by our dissonance out of this terrible love spell. Or perhaps (I take the most optimistic view here), we shall find in each other a soothing something which we do not possess in ourselves, realize in each other a world yet undiscovered, and thereupon unite like two poles of the earth: distant in space but connected ever so intimately.
Gravely, I wish you to know the stirrings of my soul. There is so much I wish to reveal to you, but can find no proper means. In truth, I am afraid of you – of your lively gait, your high spirits, your guileless humor. All these frighten me because I can find no way to match them. To you, my strides would appear sluggish, my manner faint, my humor queer. How far apart must lie the two stars from which we have descended.
How quickly time passes! I can barely recall the time we last met, and even less the conversations that passed; which usually I do with lasting clarity. It is this new life that has turned me so callous towards all these other affairs – and to think that you used to be the prime affair! I simply don’t have the time now. Nor the will and vigor of mind. I seem to feel a debilitating lethargy all the time. Even my writing has lost its effulgence (not that it had a lot to begin with). The truth is, Fraulein, I am lost. I have doubts all the time about the materials over which I ponder. And just this morning, I felt terribly disconcerted. I was in a sociology class, and sociology being a discipline none too distant from philosophy, made me think that it was a subject I could excel in. But behold, there I sat, quiet as a bard without his strings, whereas everyone else in the class were clambering over each other’s opinions like hungry, seasoned debaters. Could I not have felt inadequate, obtuse, delusional? I suspect this is the reason for the your absence. The myriad worries and anxieties have darkened the tunnels of my mind. I can see past nothing, not certainly the hopeful glimmer at the end. I do not wish to meet you in this deplorable state, nor, I believe, would you wish to meet me – I would only dim your cheeriness – and so let us agree to the fairness of my callous cocoon. Thus I bid you adieu!