Tragically Flawed

1

Stubbing out a cigarette I turn back to my laptop and stare at a blank document. Who am I kidding I am not a writer, I should just give up while there is no heartache over my obvious lack of talent. Characters and plots of what could be a stroke of genius crash like waves in my head, but when my fingers go to the keys the ocean of madness of my mind goes quiet and calm. How can I have so much imagination till I lift the lid of my computer, how can story after story come to me and yet I never manage to put the words to paper. One day maybe I will finally find my voice, find a story that just flows forth like river from the ocean of madness. One day I will write and immortalize myself on paper, to put a little part of my soul for people to read and maybe even relate to. To touch someone the same way so many writers have touched my life. I know I sound vain but my only wish in this world is to put something of myself into a novel and to live on in black and white.    

Broken. One word to sum up what seems like a lifetime of pain in a very short time. Shattered until he comes to pick up the pieces left of my heart. With a love stronger than any chemical bonding agent he tries to piece me back together, but what if I am never whole again? What if I am never together enough to keep him and one day he realizes that all this effort was for naught. Will my worries and insecurities one day finally drive him away.

He is my everything. What I always wanted in a friend, spouse, and lover. Giving to no end, loving like no other. He truly does accept me for me, and I know that all my worrying is in my head. When you seem to have the closest thing to perfection how can you not wait for the other shoe to drop? Everything in my past experience tells me that good things do not last, but I want this to work for the rest of my life. How does he put up with my numerous idiosyncrasies. He calls me smart, he calls me beautiful; and when I look in the mirror I want to see what he does but I don’t.

I light another cigarette and turn back to screen hoping one day I’ll write the story that will purge the demons from my twisted mind. So I sit and I start to type about the only things I really know, pain deeper than any sea and love so great it moves me to tears at times. One drag then another waiting for the words to form, but the only thing that comes to mind is how much I miss him. So I write to him;

Dear P,

I miss you, it’s been so many years since we've talked. To long since I’ve heard your voice, seen your face. I know you had to leave but it all seems so unfair. It seems so trivial but I hope the weather is nice wherever you ended up. The weather here was always too unpredictable, I hope you ended up somewhere thats it’s always autumn.

So much has happened since you’ve left. I’ve grown so much you wouldn't even recognize me anymore. All that you tried to teach me has not gone to waste though, you shaped me into something strange. You gifted me with a taste of things that belong to a generation long before mine, so much so that I can’t relate to people my own age. While this makes me a very interesting and unique person, it has also caused me some pain over the years.

I love old literature, old books, they have a certain feel and smell to them. God the smell of old books, I know it sounds strange but there is nothing better than the smell of an old book, a musk of all those who’ve read it before me. Knowing that so many others have leafed through the same pages as me, took the trip to another world that the words take you to. I love coming across an old book at a flea market, feeling the aged pages between my fingers. I have 1930’s copy of Pride and Prejudice I bought from a tiny bookstore in Frankfort. I can still remember climbing the rickety stairs in the back up to the second floor where they kept all the used books. The smell is what I remember most, a symphony of aged paper and dusty covers. Sunlight streaming in from the wall of windows in the front of the store, warming your skin as you searched through shelves to find that one diamond amongst all the coal. Floors of old wood sagging to accommodate racks full of books long forgotten. There I found it hidden in a corner, abandoned by some closed down public library. For a dollar I bought a book that was easily 75 years old, in it a way to escape to whole other era.

Music was your true gift to me, a healthy appreciation for artist whose fame had long since passed before my birth. This is something I have always carried with me. Just because it’s old doesn't mean it cannot be relevant to people now. I feel like I was meant to have lived in a different era at times, but I reconcile these thoughts by looking into the past. I listen to the hits of yesterday and they resonate with me like they were written today. The years having no ill effect on them, time never diminishing the potency of the words and chords. Music is a universal language that transcends language barriers and time. Opera that is sung in a language I doubt I could ever speak gives me chills from the pure emotion poured into them.

I can't encompass everything you’ve done for me in one letter so I intend for this to be the first of many. At times I’m still incredibly lonely but I’ve found love in with an amazing man. I still think about you daily and I doubt that will ever change, in fact I don’t want it to. So till the next letter i’ll leave you with this quote; “From childhood's hour I have not been as others were; I have not seen as others saw…”

With all my love,

EAP

Who am I kidding I am not a writer, I should just give up while there is no heartache over my obvious lack of talent. Characters and plots of what could be a stroke of genius crash like waves in my head, When my fingers go to the keys the ocean of madness of my mind goes quiet and calm. How can I have so much imagination till I lift the lid of my computer. How can story after story come to me and yet I never manage to put the words to paper. One day maybe I will finally find my voice, find a story that just flows forth like river from the ocean of madness. One day I will write and immortalize myself on paper, to put a little part of my soul for people to read and maybe even relate to. To touch someone the same way so many writers have touched my life. I know I sound vain but my only wish in this world is to put something of myself into a novel and to live on in black and white.

Reviews

[bob, small b. aka invs]

i like this a lot. i think the beginning is a little shakey, but by the time you get to the letter, it comes alive. maybe that's because i get the whole appreciation of the past stuff. i'm so afraid i've missed something, i spend a lot of time checking out authors, singers, music, art of the past. back to your writing.. i could see this becoming a longer piece, possibly even a novel that centers around these letters. i'm sure you may have considered that. continued good luck in your writing and your life.

[C McNear]

Thank you, this started out as just one letter but like you said I think if I can continue on with the same level emotion i could center something longer around these letters.

[Sectando]

I also enjoyed this, especially the letter! It does have some format/flow issues but as far as your voice you did a great job, most notably for me when you were describing old books. I can really relate to that because I've been there and I actually saw myself in various flea markets looking for old books to add to my collection.