The truth is that writing will never make me as beautiful as you, whoever you are, even though at times it almost seems possible to find a view that would not shift. If I write too much about love it is only because I feel so much and see so little of it, there is too much selfish desire and plain boredom.
You may say that you are not beautiful, that you should have even teeth and clearer skin, but when you give me a smile there is no other definition of beauty. Why then judge myself with different standards if there is so much to love about you and everyone else?
Maybe I simply want to avoid becoming conceited. I do not want to be proud of my mediocrity even though sometimes I admire it.
Even if I manage to discover a perspective, a sentence that brightens the room for a few seconds, the moment is soon over and I am left in the darkness again, scribbling blindly, unchanged except for the growing knowledge of how many ways one can fail to achieve what you can do without effort, the charm in speaking and hesitating and putting on your glasses to see better, although not me, unfortunately.
Words do not achieve anything, they only create impressions, but in the end – when your body is close to mine – all the words scatter into space, they are like stars and I see the vast emptiness between them. All impressions are false except for your fingers moving on my skin, my hand on your hips.
There really should be no reason to write anything, but there is not enough love in this world to turn the head of anyone who does not want it. But love is never taken, it can only be given, and if we are lucky other people have something to give as well. There is no acceptance or rejection either with love because it is not a gift as such, but an exalted perspective that may or may not be shared. And there are no real arguments against love, only rationalisations and empty words like “You don’t really know me,” which more often than not simply means “I don’t find you attractive enough”. But I find that when two minds truly touch each other then suddenly everything turns attractive, the oaks and the brown river and the foaming sea.
So maybe there is a need for words after all, they do not create or reach beauty in themselves but maybe they can help us see it in others. However, there is always a limit to how much one can achieve and at best I can try to change myself.
Have these words brought me any comfort? I already knew what you signify to me, the beauty of the whole world concentrated in one person. So nothing new there. It is what I choose to see, although the fact that it is you was not initially a real choice. I was always helpless.
I should let go of these words now, let them fly and scatter, they have failed to touch me, they always do.
Goodbye, I love you.
Reading this now I’m somewhat disturbed by it, which is good. The long paragraph is the most controversial. No acceptance in love? The feeling described is more about something universal, a mode of being rather than a mode of moving toward an object.