TO THE LOVE OF MY LIFE (OR CURRENT RESIDENT)
To the Love of My Life (or Current Resident),
It must be the year 1939, because that is the only excuse I could possibly have for writing you a letter instead of a text, or an email, or face-timing (even on your spotty school wifi). Yet here I am, scratching at a piece of paper with a proverbial quill (all I have around the dorm are pencils, which lack the exuberance and earnestness one hopes to convey in a letter, so I do apologize). Hopefully this purple color at least denotes a certain affection I have for you, the events, the circumstances, and the details that brought all two of us together (direct and indirect). Now I’ve ended only my third straight sentence in a parenthetical, suggesting, though not—I would argue—proving, that I am not up for this challenge I have self-inflicted, but I will not go back (I have no eraser), because I am able to still, even now believe, though for how much longer is up for speculation, that my all-over-the-place-ness might just come across as endearing, and furthermore endearing in exactly the way I want to be endeared to you, because you know—you do know, don’t you?—that you, and the way I feel about you, puts me in a confused sort of daze, but a cherished daze, a daze I look forward to, like I maze I don’t want to finish.
New paragraph anyway. This letter-writing is really something. I hope my lettering is enunciated understandably: to go through all this and only be comprehended as much as you might a peanut-butter mouthed, lisping, english-as-a-second-or-third-language, on a bad phone connection, shy, articulator, would be terribly deflating. And until that idea’d crossed my mind, I’ve been all helium about the prospects of you receiving this in a sealed envelope, some month or two in the future (however long it takes(?)). I could have simply emailed your roommate to scribble this out for me—no doubt more legibly—and place the whole sorry thing in your mailbox tomorrow morning, but that would be the smart, and efficient, and painless thing to do, which is exactly what I want to race moronically away from, as if my life, somehow, depended on it.
Is it just a tall-tale that you can’t be logical and romantic at the same time: one I kept believing, while everyone else went and got degrees, obtained shelves of their own, et cetera? I doubt it, but I should consult the internet on the issue, and will, but only once I am through with this. And I’m nowhere close. I’ve said only zero of the things I came to say, I’m sure you’ll have been disappointed to notice, just don’t think I didn’t notice, too. In fact, the very nature of my words, in their shameful state, should vindicate me that I couldn’t have been thinking of them much, and certainly not correctly, as I committed them to paper in this preposterous order—though the order isn’t really the main defect, is it? But what it indicates, what I infer from my very self, is that I couldn’t possibly be cognizant of this writing thing I… am… currently… you get the (idea). And what could’ve taken it’s place in that region of my brain (the prefrontal, the hypothalamus?—remind me)? Answer: your eyes, and eyebrows, eyelashes, the cheek just below the eye, and the space in between the eyes and that perfectly imperfect (you know what I mean) nose… and as I’m sure you follow me: the rest of you. But how could I dare just list your autonomy, your features, and tell myself I wrote a letter? I couldn’t, so this is where we’ve ended up. I didn’t want to assemble a grocery list of why I love you (I love you), I wanted to make sure you could feel it, feel that I love you out of any semblance of coherence, out of grammatical consistency, rhythm, dignity…
That is just for starters. You’ve heard my thesis, now to prove it. If only I could put off eating and sleeping, and write you letters and letters, and not stop writing you letters until I got word you were losing mobility in your room due to the overflow, and your roommate (patient as a person can sanely be) was starting to become inconvenienced by the piles. But I suppose that’s unrealistic. Even in this tirade against practicality, as direly sentimental as I aspire to be, even with what you and your absolute bonafide wonderfulness has done to my corruptible mind and the metaphorical heart that resides therein, I see how it is only good and unavoidable that I do eat, and sleep, and interact with people, and go through the motions. I’ve always admitted my deficiencies—how could you read this and disagree?—and two of them are the need to eat and sleep. Ugh, and water drinking too. The list goes on and on (and on). In a utopia the list would be a single item: write to you—no, that’s no Shangri-La—better, and by a mile, would be: be with you. Now that’s a good list. Have you made a better one? I know you were very happy with your list of favorite TV shows, of which I’ve still procrastinated on, but only because of the aforementioned eating and sleeping, et al, but I still think you might concede that my list is just the pinnacle in lists. It’s the best list. But for now, more of this…
You, you, you. There, I’ve said what I’ve meant to say, and finally with a degree of eloquence. Don’t feel compelled to write a letter in return—I’ve sure showcased the pitfalls of the past time—but please (please!) call me, or should I say return my calls. I’ve been pestering, but you know why. If you’ve made it all the way through to these words now, you know why. I know you weren’t pleased (at all) about the idea of long (very) distance, but I’m pleased about the idea of you, and since time and space is one and the same, what difference does anything else make (some—I see how it might, yes, but let’s not think so Newtonian-ly!)?
Classes are going well in spite of your physical absence and constant presence. I think I’ll get one of those word-famous ‘A’s, or two. Not that that would impress you. Have you decided on a major yet? I’m going to do environmental studies or art history or math (advise me?).
I love you, and hope to hear from you before this letters reaches those lovely, mentioned once, and now, because of their superlative, un-overstate-able loveliness, mentioned twice, eyes, or at least, soon after, and AT LEAST, (please—if politeness need enter in) again.
Love,
Isabelle (XOXO). (I won’t include a PS, but I want to. Oh, but I should add, I suppose, in reference to my enclosed mixtape, that I do hope you can track down a cassette player, but if it is at all laborious, drop it. You’ve heard them all before, I’m sure, and if not, it’s only music, so you get the idea.)
