The Last Letter Had I Sent the Last Letter

Isn’t it strange the imagination – to create a storyline with one who is not there, and with occasions that may never exist? They call it “loving the idea of someone“ – that in contrast to the reality. But I challenge such a notion, that love stories are borne of a back-burner, slowly churning into an untouched field. Yet frankly also, we often know nothing of what truly benefits us – thence we create what our minds would rather absorb. Humans crave love, and that almost with anybody with whom a connection is made. Are we lovesick or alone, or filled with unnecessary infatuation? I deny the latter, and certainly more so the poison of lust. However, let me dictate that we are authors to nothing, and certainly not of our own love stories. I dare suppose that the object of our imaginations are yet lovely and fruitful, if God would so will it. But I lack wisdom and understanding.

I love my brother; I am responsible for the keeping of his soul. What more? Ration and reason participate as co-laborers. “What more?” I asked the Lord. “Grant me Thine own desires, for I am wanting and foolish.” What is best is yet hid for the formation of the character. I pray I am enough, and not my works, though the works themselves have a place. Time itself knows nothing of the sort, but in due time it is I who will know, and Christ, who will reveal it and him.

(Only due of Solomon and his song.)

How lovely would the sister also be the bride, and the brother, the groom! But let it be known, that the keeper of the brotherhood is stronger than blood, and I have no blood brother. He is my counterpart.

I tire of writing about one whose memory lingers, and I wonder at the awareness of myself with no visible issue. Surely, the majority of my positive (or negative) thought is to be craved, wanted, loved… I do not seek it, but I do search for it. He’d never – he whom I speak of… I tire of writing of you… I tire of waiting for nothing… I tire of expectation. I tire of hope. I fear deception. I wished to be correct about you. I wished not to override what I deemed possible or impossible. I know nothing, but I know something that I hate to admit– hopes to attach my imagination somewhere tangible, but I see the joy of service, and perceive the words of grace. Why are you so quiet? It gives me too much time to live nowhere. I see imagination as concretely useless but to paint a faint sketch of what I’d prefer… My delight is null. Yet if I wrote nothing at all, what proof would I have of your existence?… But I see you no more, and I know your mind is occupied with things and others…

Unrequited love is nothing. I write this letter in the eyes of the God who knows my thoughts, my wants, and my needs… I dare not decode the letters of his name, lest I burn the note they are written upon. I just needed something to write, though I dreamed of sharing with you my earliest thoughts. Letters are my love language… They bring the space closer in my brain. Perhaps I increase in intelligence and kindness when I choose you as my desire. This desire is utterly incomplete, and no book would finalize my competency on your regard.

I’m done.