only during the night do i mentally compose letters to you. the letters i would’ve written, my feelings transcribed on paper, but it always comes out wrong. it doesn’t nearly sound as composed or concise in my head than it does on paper. on paper it’s just a jumble of sentence fragments that document the range of emotions you make me feel, things i’ve always wanted to say to you, my memories of you, my constructed memories of you, to just tell you what exactly i felt in that moment in time, to clear up misconceptions, to let you know exactly what i’ve been holding in all this time.
when it’s all written down, it’s hard to understand what i’m trying to say. it’s chicken scratch. words are crossed out, stained with tears, and even the paper feels clammy. in the end, i’m too embarrassed to even show you, to redraft.
so instead at night i dream up how i would talk to you in person, mentally writing letter after letters to you in my dream.
when i do happen to pass you in real life, everything i’ve written, everything i’ve composed, just dissapates. in that quick moment, we half-assedly acknowledge each other, steal glances at each other, exchange polite smiles that don’t really mean anything, and for the moment, in the daylight, i can convince myself that i don’t even care anymore.
it’s hard to describe your existence. what you mean to me.
you were a catalyst in my life.
i am not weak minded for being unable to find the right combination of words to describe you, it’s just that there are no words to confine your being.
“We feel that to reveal embarrassing or private things, we have given someone something, that, like a primitive person fearing that a photographer will steal his soul, we identify our secrets, our past and their blotches, with our identity, that revealing our habits or losses or deeds somehow makes one less of oneself.”—
Dave Eggers ( from A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius)