Luna,
What you have chosen is entirely
your prerogative, valid and I have tried to express my true respect for that as
I bleed out. I thought you might be hurting or struggling overwhelmed
inside and maybe something I might write would help you open up and we could
try to grow something beautifully unique by the awakening of your vulnerability
and exploring the confluences of the girl that grew into the woman you are and
the boy that grew into the man that I am burgeoning from mutual empathy.
What that something unique would be
I do not know. I felt we had a hell of a foundation in how we were built
before we ever met that clicked with each other. I want to try. I
feel sorry for you, for me. I feel like we both saw it and it was too
much for you to process, so you dismissed it.
I feel like I met this part of you
that nests inside you and spoke for brief and amazing windows that captured my
heart. I felt like the you at the top of the stairs was so genuine
because that part of you is the core of everything else in your art,
intelligence and beauty.
I have felt to a degree like you
were drowning her and I wanted to fight for her; I want that part of you to
tell me how I make you feel. All the metaphors and hyperbole I may have
employed in my writing it is all fueled by that dynamic of the confliction and
empathetic affinity I feel for that core seed of you.
Being at the mercy of another
human’s heart is the ultimate in relinquishing control and your disinclination
to engage in a potential path to such is all too well advertised in my sorrow
in this unrequited predicament. I imagine the increasing distance in time
from what we shared only solidifies your immutability to exit your comfort zone
and hardens firmer into glazed disinterest.
I feel like you have probably gone
through these cycles of getting sort of close and then pushing people away
because you feel your identity is threatened. I may be projecting but I
felt we both had failed relationships centered on the same issue that comes
from being an artist. An artist needs time in the self to be alone with
our thoughts to make our art. An artist feels more deeply creating
internal gravity that draws one inward and others away.
So much of this for me was about
your inner permission to have feelings. You come across as army-tough
welded with stubborn self-determinism. You are like a titanium cookie
under Cerberus’ ball sack; prohibiting emotional intimacy and your vulnerability
to emit an avenue to be read or self-disclose.
What I have been seeking is
something from you that felt like an honest answer of what did you feel.
What did my poems, my presence, and my letters make you feel?
I feel confliction in the contrast
of a woman so boldly forward in four quarters of her body, three quarters of
her mind, yet gives no quarter for her emotions. How do I make you feel;
my writing, all of it? The lack of your honest heart in detail
commensurate with the portent of your depth prompts my pursuits.
You do not owe me an explanation or
a damn thing, but for me to believe there was never that iceberg I described
feeling, struggling in your depths, is madness. You came across to me as
one of the most intelligent, deeply thinking, giant-old soul women I have met.
How you appear to treat your own heart makes me cry.
I wrote this short story on Sunday
about ideas of you inspired in me. Make of it what you will.
One of the most treasured moments
you shared with me was reading Calvino on my couch. Consider this story a
repayment for the joy you brought to me then. I have no anger for you,
only smiles and lament for what might have been. I hope you find the
short story adventurous, playfully ribald, flattering, funny, and a seed.
My greatest hope is that in the scenes where Alice knows not what to do,
there is no logical reason she knows the next step, but she looks inside
herself and in that reflection is where her path surfaces. I have hoped
inside you operate with a similar deliberation and self-release.
Best wishes,
In my humble humanity,
Severus
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