The Third Letter

I knew this would happen: I’d get infatuated, I’d show it, she’d cringe. Intense emotion begets intense discomfort. Maybe I should’ve played it cool, leaned back and been ‘gangsta’. Maybe.

A gentle push, yet a push nonetheless. I feel it deeply. Lovers and foes always know these things. Maybe she doesn’t even know she’s doing it, the same way I don’t know I’m doing it, relentlessly pursuing the wind. Who knows? All we have are our dreams, our wishes, and what we get is reality, which is often more beautiful in retrospect. Lust nary makes sense in retrospect. The present exerts itself malignantly, blinding us to what is, paradoxically.

I feel this deeply, that what is and what should be are different. I cannot shake it any more, I’d better embrace it. Lancing the boil, as it were. A refreshing agony, the ecstasy of freedom from oneself. My dreams are further and further away from her, and I fear she dreams not of me. There is no sin in unrequited love.