I've smelt you so many times over the years. It's a scent you can't really miss, but still it lingers on, in the doldrums of a brain filled to the brim over the years with poetic nonsense of the peak achievement of love. It's a notion that helps pass the time, a comforting light at the end of the tunnel, but one without practical purpose. Sitting here, the lights off and Mozart's Lacrymosa pouring out of speakers like God himself couldn't hold it back, that scent - just a whiff so many years ago - floods pages and pages of letters, obscuring smudged scribbles and blurred vision, blocking already tired ears, stuffing a mouth that has just begun to taste sorrow; a genuine orgy of the senses, it is.
There's a feeling, somewhere, that I want to turn it off, this music, everything, but I'm afraid. The cold clack of the keys, tap-tapping in that monotonous pulse, is everything I fear most, for that is where you are not. It's something like death, but slower, more severe; when you leave this body, so I leave.
There's comfort in this relative silence; I take solace in it. I have no use for words. I'd rather remain, still, each note rushing over me in euphoria, with no need to tell whose euphoria - mine or the note's - it is. I'd rather remain, still, my thoughts echoing not words but images - images infinitely precise, detailed, delicate, hanging in the balance of memory: a colored-in picture with no caption. There's comfort in silence, too.
This piece - Mozart's - I don't understand a single word. Only the sounds exist, at the root of each word, softly swirling in the night. There's comfort in that.
I used to want to own a typewriter; I always liked the sound of the keys so much more than those of a computer. There's history in them, and you can hear years pounding away with each successive keystroke. It's a relative symphony of raps, dings and bangs, and it also meant so much more to me than what I was actually writing on the page. I never got one, of course.
Then there were the pages themselves. The writing dulled, blunted by heavy hands glancing wet ink, slides across the page. It's so much more dynamic than the static glow of the computer screen. And each cursory oversight that lines the final product is all the more reminder that it's not final at all.
I can't even remember how many days I've sat at this computer since you left. I type out page after page until the words number in the thousands, tens of thousands, millions, and still find myself no closer to you. I'm building a word bridge here, and it keeps collapsing.
I don't have a problem with being alone. I'm alone most of every day. It's tough to find a word to explain it, for with each subsequent word I draw out - solitude, isolation, seclusion - each draws out another word of its own - punishment, abandonment, repression. Each word writes a word of its own, till my word bridge is building bridges upon bridges of its own that seek to pervade the entire language. I'm doing you a disservice with every word I write. I should just hand you a dictionary.
This aloneness - I'll just settle on that one - is a necessity. I avoid coming in contact with the world. My world becomes my own construction. And my construction is you.
In periods of solemnity, I always have reflected that these thoughts - even these distressing, miserable thoughts - are mine and mine alone. Perhaps economists are right; perhaps there is an inescapable joy in ownership, of conquering the unknown for the known (that is, for the alone.
I have often wondered why I write the way I do, as far as the syntax of my sentences are concerned. I believe it is something that any writer of quality has asked him or herself in the past, and I'm sure that others have speculated on my behalf as well. I write fairly simple sentences - I rarely use conjunctions, I rarely begin sentences with clauses, I often tack on clauses at the end where they act as easily digested modifiers. It is an as-of-yet unfinished reflection.
I do not attempt to communicate ideas. Ideas are Cartesian circles in and of themselves, churning round and round in impenetrable human minds. Rather, I attempt to write feeling. It is more easily done and often leads to more action.
I feel I can give you this letter when I have experienced everything. Such is my goal in life. Life began when I met you, for only then did this being that I now regard as myself come into existence. I won't venture so far as to say that it was incomplete before your meeting, but it was in an unidentified form. And now I must experience everything, everything, before you can see this letter, even if that means tearing you from me.
This is no love letter. Love is an obsession. Everything I do says, "I love you." Every action of mine - the book I read earlier, the words I write now - is an extension of this love. For what I am, so you have become.
Once you asked me why I chose not to masturbate. It took me years to figure out that it was no choice at all but a complete revulsion to "infidelity." I'm still not entirely sure what that means, as these words are so truly tricky to nail down. But I think that I think that such an act of masturbation would allow that the essence of my being - that is, you - could be separated from an act of said being - that is, self-stimulation.
This love for you is entangled in my flesh, in my makeup. No, this letter is not to say, "I love you." It is to say, merely, "I am."