once upon a time, i used to write every year at this time of year to The Man Who Does Not Exist. they were terribly, sappy, angst-filled, dreamy, indolent, and utterly prosey things. all but decadent with longing. i stopped writing them a bit ago, when i lost a good bit of my writing and many of those letters. but the concept has remained and this year, i’m motivated to write another… but not of the same sort. as you’ll see. (aside: i popped awake ‘for no apparent reason’ about an hour ago and the motivation to this seems rather pointedly related to recent experiences. all the same, i’m indulging.)
Dear One,
It has been some time since I’ve written you. I will admit to being piqued by your absence and more than a little self-chiding for my continuing obsession with you. I have discovered over these last years that the image of you so carefully crafted has been a disservice to both of us. I have also discovered a deeper care for you; Things that have very little to do with girlish dreams of perfection.
I suppose you could say I’ve found you, for all I remain no less apart from you than ever. I’ve met you in my mind as The Farmer, I’ve walked with you in those far fields, in the meadow, in the canyon. I’ve ridden with you along dusty, dirt roads and spoken with you under moonlight, by firelight, and discovered that of you which is me… and the portion of you that exists in others, in everyone.
I have also found you in someone who is living a life that I will never be more than a flicker from afar within… and in it, have discovered that of you which transcends the “love” that would own or hold or have. Agapos. A good bit of angst for it as well, but most of that has been soothed and dissolved as I’ve realized that of you which is far purer than ruddy, randy Eros could ever manage.
I have seen glimpses of you in couples, in children, in sunrises and rain showers. I’ve found you on street corners; your gaunt form and blood-shot eyes bringing me to tears for all the ways I could not do more than pass you by. I’ve heard you in music, felt you in sunlight, tasted you in morning toast and stale coffee. I have begun to realize the truth of you.
Naturally, it has had something of a transmuting effect upon things.
In odd ways, the pain of your absence has been softened by it. In even odder ways, the delight of seeing you in another has been more painful than anything I’ve ever experienced. The truth that is who you are set against reality and in the contrast, the discovery of so many things. I wish there were words to encapsulate and express all of them. But I do the best I can. I contradict myself regularly because I’m still learning. I smile for that, too.
I love you more than ever, and I do not miss you at all. Isn’t it strange. I see you everywhere and am content. It is bemusing to write that to you, and I am smiling for it because I know that, were you able to read it, you would smile for it.
I suppose in many ways, this is the truest love letter I could write. So I am happy to finally be able to write it. I sit here and the flood of saudade rises and I weep with it and it is beautiful to me. Such an odd life. So precious. I have never met you and I meet you every day. I will never know you and I know you so intimately that we breathe as one. I will never “have” you, but I am surrounded by you… cushioned and cared for and cherished in ways that make me blush for how much time I have spent thinking myself lost, alone, and alienated.
I ponder how I have so long ignored you and written these letters as if you were not here, with me, in every moment. I chuckle for the arrogance of writing to you as if you were afar while you have quietly, patiently, and lovingly said nothing and just continued to be all around me.
I suppose there really is only one thing more to say, and the irony of such saying is it’s own delight. Laughing and crying at once, voice choked to whisper for my many foolishnesses, I give it to you, sotto vox…
Welcome home.
Love,
Me