^_^ Okay, it's a corny title. But that pretty much sums up what I'm going to do here. I'm going to write a letter. To her. Because I'm tired, and emotional, and can't think of a better outlet to release. If you're not her (which you may be, but wouldn't know anyway) then just take this as a short story of sorts. Like something you'd find in a book where the author feels compelled to record the letter her character has written because it's a crucial part of the story. If not, just skip this entry. ^_^
Dear You,
So hi. I doubt you saw this coming. And I doubt you realize the weight of the conviction which hangs on these words of mine. Not because I doubt the kind of person you are, but only because I know the kind of person you are. The kind of person who doesn't pick up on subtle, (or else the kind of person who does and is evil enough to string me along, of these two I choose the former) the kind of person who doesn't see the value in herself, or at least isn't able to see the value I see in you.
I suppose life has a sense of humor that way. I mean, no one really sees the value in themselves. If you asked me, I wouldn't say I was that great. I don't see myself as the positive, cheerful person that you do. But I guess that's what brings us together as well. I read somewhere once (or I made it up, I can't remember. But it sounds like something I read.) that "We're not alone. And even if we are, we're together in that too." It's like, some sort of comfort mechanism that humans have. We need to be together. Whether it's in sadness or joy, pain or comfort. We. Need. To. Be. Together.
I've heard it said so many times that, people need each other. And I suppose that on some level, it's a good thing. I mean, without other people around I think the majority of humanity would go right insane. Like people who are locked in solitary confinement for too long. But that, I think, is more of a survival mechanism. And people aren't built to simply survive. We're built to live. In King Arthur, Arthur says to Guinevere: "It's the natural state of any man to want to live."
She replies: "Animals live. It's the natural state of any man to want to live free."
People weren't meant to survive. We were meant to live. And I suppose that's what I'm writing to you about. I'm tired of surviving. Well, more accurately, I'm tired of feeling like I'm only surviving, day to day. People talk about God and how he fills you. I believe and I desire it. But I've said it before, and I'll say it again. God only goes so far. God isn't going to come down and wrap me in a hug when I'm upset. God isn't going to pat me on the back when I do a good job. That's what he put people here for.
So I suppose, what I'm simply trying to say is. You make me feel alive. It's a feeling. And chasing feelings is a dangerous pastime. I know this firsthand. But that's all I wanted to say, just so you know. Talking to you each night is the highlight of my day, what I look forward to with a wanton anticipation. When I talk to you, even though I cannot get in your head, or maybe because I cannot get inside your head, my brain and my mouth disconnect. It's like, in this moment I'm truly, fully alive. Fully aware of every facet of my being. So painfully aware, in fact, that I trip over my own feet, my mind races to find words to say only to get them backwards or mixed up.
It's a form of torture that the universe has devised I think, creating someone like you. Someone so blissfully unaware of the things you draw out of me. Well, to be more exact, so blissfully unaware that it is you who draw them out of me. I wonder what the future holds for us. Often I find myself dreaming; hoping against my better judgement that perhaps you feel what I feel. Before I pull myself back down to earth.
Simply put, I am enamored of you. Enthralled beyond reasoning and logic. And though a part of me hopes that you'll see it. Another hopes you never do. Because in that moment, I will be laid bare, all my insecurities and imperfections, weaknesses and shortcomings. And it is with a sort of...expectant dread, that I hope the days comes.
I doubt even this measure will enlighten you as to who you are. The prospect of which half gladdens and half breaks me. But hope is a bird that will not be caged, and I can do nothing but let her soar.
Yours,
Jared
Well, what can I say? I read too much poetry. And yeah, normal people don't talk like that. But when you speak the language of love, how else are you to express yourself? I wonder what purpose feelings like these serve. I hope I'll find out someday.
Ici ne va rien,
Here we go again,
Jared
Dear You,
So hi. I doubt you saw this coming. And I doubt you realize the weight of the conviction which hangs on these words of mine. Not because I doubt the kind of person you are, but only because I know the kind of person you are. The kind of person who doesn't pick up on subtle, (or else the kind of person who does and is evil enough to string me along, of these two I choose the former) the kind of person who doesn't see the value in herself, or at least isn't able to see the value I see in you.
I suppose life has a sense of humor that way. I mean, no one really sees the value in themselves. If you asked me, I wouldn't say I was that great. I don't see myself as the positive, cheerful person that you do. But I guess that's what brings us together as well. I read somewhere once (or I made it up, I can't remember. But it sounds like something I read.) that "We're not alone. And even if we are, we're together in that too." It's like, some sort of comfort mechanism that humans have. We need to be together. Whether it's in sadness or joy, pain or comfort. We. Need. To. Be. Together.
I've heard it said so many times that, people need each other. And I suppose that on some level, it's a good thing. I mean, without other people around I think the majority of humanity would go right insane. Like people who are locked in solitary confinement for too long. But that, I think, is more of a survival mechanism. And people aren't built to simply survive. We're built to live. In King Arthur, Arthur says to Guinevere: "It's the natural state of any man to want to live."
She replies: "Animals live. It's the natural state of any man to want to live free."
People weren't meant to survive. We were meant to live. And I suppose that's what I'm writing to you about. I'm tired of surviving. Well, more accurately, I'm tired of feeling like I'm only surviving, day to day. People talk about God and how he fills you. I believe and I desire it. But I've said it before, and I'll say it again. God only goes so far. God isn't going to come down and wrap me in a hug when I'm upset. God isn't going to pat me on the back when I do a good job. That's what he put people here for.
So I suppose, what I'm simply trying to say is. You make me feel alive. It's a feeling. And chasing feelings is a dangerous pastime. I know this firsthand. But that's all I wanted to say, just so you know. Talking to you each night is the highlight of my day, what I look forward to with a wanton anticipation. When I talk to you, even though I cannot get in your head, or maybe because I cannot get inside your head, my brain and my mouth disconnect. It's like, in this moment I'm truly, fully alive. Fully aware of every facet of my being. So painfully aware, in fact, that I trip over my own feet, my mind races to find words to say only to get them backwards or mixed up.
It's a form of torture that the universe has devised I think, creating someone like you. Someone so blissfully unaware of the things you draw out of me. Well, to be more exact, so blissfully unaware that it is you who draw them out of me. I wonder what the future holds for us. Often I find myself dreaming; hoping against my better judgement that perhaps you feel what I feel. Before I pull myself back down to earth.
Simply put, I am enamored of you. Enthralled beyond reasoning and logic. And though a part of me hopes that you'll see it. Another hopes you never do. Because in that moment, I will be laid bare, all my insecurities and imperfections, weaknesses and shortcomings. And it is with a sort of...expectant dread, that I hope the days comes.
I doubt even this measure will enlighten you as to who you are. The prospect of which half gladdens and half breaks me. But hope is a bird that will not be caged, and I can do nothing but let her soar.
Yours,
Jared
Well, what can I say? I read too much poetry. And yeah, normal people don't talk like that. But when you speak the language of love, how else are you to express yourself? I wonder what purpose feelings like these serve. I hope I'll find out someday.
Ici ne va rien,
Here we go again,
Jared
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