I Write Myself to Her

Comfortably holding a pen between my fingers I look down at the colorful papers laying on my desk and I know it’s time to open my heart and to truly say how it feels to let the thought of her navigate in my mind for a while.

Seems like it’s a different world. As if I was a silent lake traveling through the lands of her many landscapes, lands where layers and layers of snow don’t leave a minimum spot so that the floor can look at the moon — except the sloping roofs, lands bathed in sunny mornings embracing the flower caretakers, colorful butterflies, lands that allow no distance to make me apart from her.

A few minutes in and I get in the mood to uncover treasures of who-knows-how-long loving feelings passing me by as the only thing I focus on is the acknowledgment of her existence and the effect she has on my life. Frankly, I wonder how far love can go, and not only that, but where does love ceases to be called love?

I’d be lying if I say she’s one hundred percent on my mind, but some people see this confession as a false love and I’m in no place to blame them. I myself second-guess my feelings all the time and the only way to grab my true intentions by the hand happens when I’m here writing her these sincere letters.

Do I love her? Well, is that the kind of question I should be inclined to ask myself every day? I’ve come to believe these wandering thoughts are more of a trouble than of a progress and it doesn’t really matter what goes on in my mind when what counts the most is how I give life to what I feel. Isn’t it the language you and I understand clearly no matter in what place of this world one lives? The language of action and creation. This unfinished letter before me becomes I symbol for the bond that starts here in my heart and stretches all the way to hers.

Now, some loves become a secret and before coming to the surface through humble gestures, it sinks into the soul afraid of being ashamed, criticized, or just wrong. Yet, if it’s a true thing, why should I keep myself from turning some few hours into a concrete representation of what I can find inside this heart of mine. It goes without saying, this is one language of love. I’m sure there are many others and sometimes you have to take a chance.

I didn’t know about her liking for handmade letters just as she had no idea I’d be into it until I made her the first one. You should’ve seen her sweet reaction, at first, words didn’t come out but with a few seconds of delay she came to her senses and allowed her pure soul to speak. And she said it was something she never expected the men she’s met to do for her. She was astonished.

Since then I can’t help myself but write her personal and sweet letters from time to time. Besides, I’ve put and end to the second-guessing because maybe it’s better if I just let myself do what sounds right to me instead of formulating reasons to be carved forever till the end of my life. Our existence is always flying by, with unexpected turns, tempests, cold wind. But sometimes it’s pure bliss, specially when you realized you don’t need to judge yourself too much.

This week I finish one more letter and it makes me wonder how many I’ll write for her in my lifetime. And I couldn’t care less about knowing if it’s actually love, because I’ve created something I felt good about. I felt like sharing this line of thinking because I’m probably not the only one that second-guesses every action. Time flies, but sincere memories of true surprises don’t.

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This post was previously published on medium.com.

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