a letter

To The One Remaining Unfound,



Do you hear my pleas? When night strokes her frigid embrace amidst the chasms of my eternal solitude, do you feel her grip as well? In the confusion of continuity across an existence dynamically mediocre, do you find yourself bored and bared too?

My minstril is weak, yet it is persevering. I only hope you find me in time before the melodies I inhabit are expunged in totality. I shan’t lose hope, only that you allow me the indulgence of knowing that you, too, yearn the same. That this longing I must brave sways you as much as it does me. And when fate allows our paths to cross, be as observant as you are. To recognize the spirit that caresses the same arias, as the violin that beats in syncophation nestled in my chest.

I am better for the most part. There are days when the reality that maybe a lifetime is deficient to transcend our physical abyss is a salve worth considering, for in the knowledge that you too find this ironic truth palpable can we purposely go on with our own lives. Serenity gained not from defeat but from conceding. Not from defiance but from subservience. That destiny unwilling, but eventually will falter. Maybe not in this realm, or the next, neither in this plane or the one parallel to it, but eventually.

Because our mortality draws a line so exacting and unequivocal it must scare you too, to discover that our hearts are doomed to wander aimlessly, creating meaning from melancholy, reason from repetitions, and balance from the barren. It is enough to know that our objectives are similar, and that the cineaste of fate has written a plot that omits the scene where we finally meet. At least the playwright has failed to conclude it, and our epilogue remains unwritten.

There are worse days, such as this one, when my travails span from south to north, seeking the company of people I barely know. Attending a marriage as a familial responsibility, or catering to laborious meetings on a late dinner at a venue replete with couples and partners, engagements and proposals. Reminding that my presence is a mere observance of their own successful theatrics. While mine remains unsung, and the words failing and sublimating continues to be unscripted, unopened, and unpenned. A tragedy effervescent, fleeting and pestering.

It is almost over. The heaves that make me hyperventilate in a frantic daze of sweaty palms and stuttering dyslexia, shivering internally from a psychological cold, swollen in sorrow from the tears that never fall, longing for an absentee touch that may never even emerge. Because you don’t know it yet. Or have been pre-occupied in someone else’s embrace. Or the realization that I am what you seek have escaped, and continually avoids, your consciousness.

But do not worry.

I am neither mad, nor enraged, tired nor exhausted. I will continually await you, in the blinding alleys of the night, and the searing brilliance of the day, in the corners of my sight, and the myopia of your ways. That one day, fate will be agreeable and allow the opus we seek to perform, finally a voice to which it can be played. That the scene long left unwritten in the drivels of drafts and soiled parchments of time be finished so we can conclude our lives in the ever-after; resilient against the curtain fall and the critiques of our audience. That your hand will seek mine, in a hold that will brave against the passing of time and the weathering of our youth, so tight and Herculean that fate herself with bind it in acceptance. That senescence will fail to part our hearts.

That your breath, will be mine. And your eyes will be the ones that welcome my everyday. Clear, tearless, confident and certain.

Because when this is all over, you would still have me. In your arms, and in your hands. My heart willing and loyal, complete and congruent, in a beating rhythm that you will distinguish amidst the false and the frivolous. But for now, I remain in your dreams. And you in mine.



As always,
The One Continually Awaiting