powered by SignMyGuestbook.com

Get your own diary at DiaryLand.com! contact me older entries newest entry

2002-01-24 - 9:08 a.m.

Patricia;

You will, I hope, forgive me. I feel so weak and tired. As you well know, yesterday saw the onset of a violent case of influenza. Here I am, in this office, typing meekly to you. My will seems to have disappeared. My spirit desists from sense. A meagre representation.

I won't make any sense, but I do not have the strength to stop.

The path for these words, then, has been set.

I'm sorry for ever having intimated to you how I felt.

Perhaps the tense of that thought might make you think that I feel no more. Untrue. I told you in the first because you seem to me to be a collection of things...a collection of a thousand small fragments - the sum of which is that state most precious, rare, and obscene - glory!

It is true. I do not 'know' you. Do we ever really know anything? I do not know the details; this is true. But what of it? There is a time for decisions and revisions that a minute will reverse.

What do I mean, you ask

If I was to take one of the glass angels that lies upon my bookshelf and dash it to the ground - and if it were to be lost in specks - I do not know how all the fragments could be collected together again and into an angel. But I do know that together the fragments permeate through logic, desire and intentions. Graspet at once, the fragments are the angel!

It is the same - I do not know you completely just as the fragments do not and cannot know one another. And I also do not know the why for this...heart's tousle. Or I do not know it entirely. But still, if only for an instant, and not without a bit of reluctance...it is as if I have begun to orbit you. A satellite. I am pulled towards you. I am the fragments, and the thoughts you provoke within me the angel collected.

She is beautiful, and therefore to be wooed. She is a woman, and therefore to be won.

It is more than likely that you are constantly pursued, that you spend your life prancing with a bevy of admirers. Do they seem to you at all ubiquitous? How many are the gadflies that cross you? I do not know. I do not hav certainty. And maybe the reasons that are supplied above, that you be a woman and that you be beautiful, are enough to have most tongues wagging.

It is not so with me. The 'desire' that I am possessed of (if it can be termed so) does not wish to act. This desire merely wants knowledge of the reason for its existence; it will glance at you despairingly when you will not glance back; thoughts of you will be stolen while you are asleep. This desire is a set of eyes glancing downwards for shame - it is of a heart laid bare at the mercy of Fate. It has a knowledge that this peculiar emotion, at this time and with you as its object, is doomed to failure. It is willing to accept all consequences. It will witness the end of its life without tears.

I know that these words are destined to failure. It matters not. I am desolate and desperate, and calm. Maybe this has occurred before in a past life. Perchance it will occur again, though through ache even the strongest grow faint...

The words, now, are without rhyme or reason. I wrote primarily to abjure you, to say that for a while I should not speak to you because of the wounds. I was mistaken. I am resolved. I will not complain. I am reconciled to my fate with you, whatever it will be. Inmity, friendship, indifference or something more...I will meet all with the same face.

troilus

previous - next

about me - read my profile! read other DiaryLand diaries! recommend my diary to a friend! Get your own fun + free diary at DiaryLand.com!