The One I Wrote For You

To write to you or to write for you? Which one would suit you? Which one would rather interest you? The former would have more of you, the latter the less of me. But a luck indeed that you got me to write about it, what we have: the loveliest business on earth. And the present moment, I am high on a certain number of definitions of love which are philosophical and profound, quirky and crisp, voluptuous with emotions. What would I say or do I still need to say about my own little romance? But still as you know, there are things which are never enough said and never enough done.  

Forget about me talking of you as my dream guy. My dream guy died the very day I accepted my love for you. He is dead and buried in my empty past tinkering of hollow fantasies. He was the offspring of a feeble imagination which recreated what it was fed with. That was an adolescent denial of simplicity, an ignorant refusal of the greatness that rests in the ordinary. I am happy I lost my vanity to find you. To realize that love is not about consuming yourself in fictitious desires and vaporous azure dreams, but about finding an emotional release and an existential mooring (don’t mind, I am really fond of this word and cannot help using it every second chance I get) . 

I don’t know if it is sane to love a person who is nothing like you. Who neither shares any of your eccentricities nor your streak of narcissism. You don’t share his enthusiasm for love and life and he doesn’t share your unflinching murderous commitment to pessimism. I hope an affair of this sort does not happen to be a leaf out of the creation of an absurdist. My relationship with you is improbable, a marriage of differences that are too different to be even considered as contraries. It is perhaps that most amusing thing that happened to me in my life. It is said that in love you grow as a person. But look what love did to me! I regressed; I went back to being a child. Love did not make me a stronger person. It made me even more vulnerable, nestled in the warmth and comfort of your affection. And could I have had it any better? Well, I really don’t want better things. After all this life of contentment has the euphony of the most beautiful love-poem.