If you would only give me your hand, I could let you go. I
would not let you go in the sense of having you find your own way, but in my
own ideas, I would be giving away myself, letting my soul slip away just to
help you find your own path. I’m not sure if it is an action of philanthropy or
of sacrifice, but either way I disappear in the end. We would disappear, bodily
at least, in the end.
But, my dear,
I must inform you of this: if I am to lead your path of life, so shall it be. I
would not resist the temptation to lead such an angelic woman out of her bounds
of fear and into the comfort of knowing the path that you walk upon. The horrid
side to this fairy tale is that at some point, you would find that I am still
who I am, but I would be missing a part of me. You would not be able to place
what was missing, not able to figure out what may have been stolen away in the
middle of the night.
You would
search every little crevasse of my being, every little detail that you had
grown to know, but you will never be able to find the right piece of the
puzzle. At that point, I would have dissolved into you; I would have given the
last bit of myself to being engraved into your being. The only thing that would
be keeping me seemingly normal would be you.
The answer
will elude you until you would read this, but your mere presence will serve as
a catalyst for my preservation. But, if you would leave during our time on your
trail of life, and God willing you never act upon that, I would cease to be and
the remnants of what I am would be carried into you. And forever, I would be
lost in the dirt that you walked on.
My hands will
be here to hold and not to painfully lust after your body. My voice will be
here to calm you and not to burst out in rage against you. And my soul, that
golden chakra, will always be my final gift to you, my little Engel.
Daniel Helle, Twentieth of April, Two Thousand and Eleven.