Letter #3: Cynical Sheep

I've been writing some letters to a man above and beyond myself - not just in worth, but in status. And the conclusive error that is my lack of words has run too thin; now I am forced into feeling.

Do I love you? I think I do. But I have no desire for you outside of myself, or what I mean to say, is that I think I have had too much time to mull it over and now the inclinations that produce any logic for me to raise a decision from the ash are strained. I could have made the decision then, and dealt with it in it's early days -- of course, I had to sleep through it for six months, remain bewildered at it for twelve, and only now, when I have one day for a million things -- or worse, a million days for one thing -- can I use the paused clause, the siren calling silence, to try pretend. Pretend, and make sense.

So what if I did love you? The only people that would suffer would be everyone. That is, if the feeling was reciprocated. Oh, I wish it were reciprocated. But those poor people, those who would suffer. What have they ever done, but love us? I'd take them to Hell for what I used this last day to make up in my head. Maybe that's why I have so many dreams about being a terrorist -- that's why you'd love me as much as I think I love you. Though time will take me on further, and I will move on - I will I will I will - I really think I loved you. You cynical b*****d, though - you know that, right? We're all dead, of course. Either that, or we're too alive to function. I am much too afraid to go on - once my days are full again, opportune - doing the pretence. 

What I mean to say, is that I do not want your sex. I do not want you for what you physically can give -- you cannot give me your mind, you can not feed me with the rapid vapour of your soul, yellowing, glistening like a new planet sprung from nowhere, or the Heavens - I want those. I can't take the love you can give - won't give, anyway - but I want the love you can't give - wouldn't give, even if you could. 

Abbey