My Dearest J,
I pray these letters find you in good faith one day. At this moment I am faced with the grim truth that you haven't the slightest inkling that they even exist or that my love for you still flourishes like a secret refusing to die. These letters represent that eternal flame we had once shared. If there is any truth I still believe it is that you still feel the same way about me. Our souls are forever bonded. My dearest love, while I wish we could be together now I do understand that we must hold off. This tragic love story, I believe with all my heart, does have a happy ending. I have to believe that, my very existence depends on it. When these letters do find you I know you will find me. We are running towards each other and my greatest day will be where we finally reach one another and fall into the others arms, forever safe. Until then my dear, I will keep writing just as you asked me to.
Sincerely,
Hopeless
Tuesday, November 26, 2013
Thursday, November 21, 2013
The Masks We Wear
My Dearest J,
We had met under false identities. You remember? I had chosen a common name to wear as a mask, if for a tiny moment to hide my real self as if I were ashamed of the woman I had become. I had chosen the name Ashley, in my opinion, because it had always had such a pretty ring to it. It had always reminded me of a dying fire, one where the embers cascade up into the night sky desperately trying to find it's way back home, back to it's mother fire.
What I found so oddly wonderful was the fact that you had done the same silly thing. You had chosen the name Don, and after a little time passed and we had revealed our real identities to one another, you would sometimes, in such a humorous fashion, would sign your letters "Don".
Time would pass unbearably slow when I waited to receive a letter from you. I remember checking the mailbox every day only to see your beautiful handwriting flowing across a beloved envelope. I could not open them quickly enough. Your letters, even in my own safe world, were something forbidden and I could not run back to the house, lock the bathroom door, and slide to the floor fast enough. My mind would shut down, not thinking of a single thing except to read the words you have addressed only to me. How that made me feel! How lucky was I to receive each wondrous word from my true love. No girl had ever been so lucky. Forgive me, for I am having trouble finding the words in which to describe that feeling. It was as if each word was a gift, a gift from across the universe which you had traveled so far to capture for only me. I cherished each one as if it were the last word I would ever read.
I will admit, after well over a year now I still check my mailbox. Every day the emptiness of that dreaded box continues to haunt me and sometimes I wonder if it all ever really happened. Normally, these days people move on and will do anything to sweep under the rug whatever has hurt them in the past. I am afraid I am incapable of this, my love. I have prayed to the heavens to take this pain away, the pain of not seeing you, not hearing you, not knowing you any longer. I have prayed to have my memory wiped clean of all thoughts of you so I may go about my remaining days in blissful ignorance. Yet, for some reason, I cannot let you go. Some may call this madness and I do not blame them, for sometimes I, myself, believe I have gone mad. Yet many great people in our history have understood that romance and madness share a very, very thin line. And it is I who feel sorry for the ones who are blind to see that.
Sincerely,
Hopeless
We had met under false identities. You remember? I had chosen a common name to wear as a mask, if for a tiny moment to hide my real self as if I were ashamed of the woman I had become. I had chosen the name Ashley, in my opinion, because it had always had such a pretty ring to it. It had always reminded me of a dying fire, one where the embers cascade up into the night sky desperately trying to find it's way back home, back to it's mother fire.
What I found so oddly wonderful was the fact that you had done the same silly thing. You had chosen the name Don, and after a little time passed and we had revealed our real identities to one another, you would sometimes, in such a humorous fashion, would sign your letters "Don".
Time would pass unbearably slow when I waited to receive a letter from you. I remember checking the mailbox every day only to see your beautiful handwriting flowing across a beloved envelope. I could not open them quickly enough. Your letters, even in my own safe world, were something forbidden and I could not run back to the house, lock the bathroom door, and slide to the floor fast enough. My mind would shut down, not thinking of a single thing except to read the words you have addressed only to me. How that made me feel! How lucky was I to receive each wondrous word from my true love. No girl had ever been so lucky. Forgive me, for I am having trouble finding the words in which to describe that feeling. It was as if each word was a gift, a gift from across the universe which you had traveled so far to capture for only me. I cherished each one as if it were the last word I would ever read.
I will admit, after well over a year now I still check my mailbox. Every day the emptiness of that dreaded box continues to haunt me and sometimes I wonder if it all ever really happened. Normally, these days people move on and will do anything to sweep under the rug whatever has hurt them in the past. I am afraid I am incapable of this, my love. I have prayed to the heavens to take this pain away, the pain of not seeing you, not hearing you, not knowing you any longer. I have prayed to have my memory wiped clean of all thoughts of you so I may go about my remaining days in blissful ignorance. Yet, for some reason, I cannot let you go. Some may call this madness and I do not blame them, for sometimes I, myself, believe I have gone mad. Yet many great people in our history have understood that romance and madness share a very, very thin line. And it is I who feel sorry for the ones who are blind to see that.
Sincerely,
Hopeless
The Red Veil
My Dearest J,
In an earlier letter I had stressed, albeit prematurely and dramatically, that I had been worried whether or not you are alive or dead. This isn't the case. Sometimes I get swept up in emotions and really sets in the anxious worries of a woman. I confess I do not escape these. I know you are alive, my dearest, for I can feel your heart beat as ever real as my own. Although the truth be is that I do not know if you are back on the war front of that devastating place. That devastating place which, because of you, will always hold a special place in my heart. A place where I had no intention or curiosity to visit before, I now yearn to walk the sands and wear the veils and maybe someday see where you had sat up in your bed for hours on end writing me those letters. I still cherish very item you have shipped to me from that exotic place. The red burqa which rests on my nightstand, a place where I see it every morning when I wake up and every night before I fall asleep. Another memory of you that constantly replays in my mind.
You had remembered that red wasn't my favorite color, but for some reason the color has chosen me and somehow associates itself with me and has done so throughout my years on this Earth. You had picked red because it follows me, because it is the color of love, because it was your favorite color, because it was our color.
I know that visiting the exact place where you lay your head to rest must sound a little improbable, for you had always written in the letters, "I can't tell you where I am," and, "I cannot say where I am going." But, my love, stranger things have happened, and in my short life on this Earth I have learned that nothing, and I mean nothing, is impossible. For after all, we are a tiny colonization pushing papers and worshiping idols among a floating blue rock. The word has no meaning to me, for impossible in itself, is false.
Good God, listen to me. I am rambling. My intention of this letter was to correct a mistaken passage I had so fervently written before. I know you are alive, my dearest, as I can still feel you breathing. You are worlds away and yet I can still feel you, this alone tells me you are alive and well.
Although I must say I can still feel your distress, my beloved. You recall those late nights when I would ask you what was wrong, even though you showed no signs of distress whatsoever? You would look at me with such sadness and confess your deepest feelings, usually involving the grim truth of our forbidden love and how we could never be together. Tears would sometimes stream our faces as you opened your arms to me when words escaped you. I would fall into them and hold onto you for dear life. We would kiss each others tears away and at least try to comfort the other with words of, "let's just enjoy these moments, here and now" and while we did, the creeping truth lurking in the background would sprout up and scream that this will not last forever. Those moments that we did cherish I still hold on to and I am thankful that we lived them with each other to the fullest.
We fought, so valiantly, for each other until the bitter end. Moments of weakness, or strength, I have a hard time deciphering between the two because they seem to both have such strong tendencies in both realities, in both worlds, that I know not which is more true. Sometimes I think we ended up together in that other world, in that alternate reality, the one where we fought harder for one another, the one where our love really did beat the odds.
Oh my dearest J, how I wish to look into the bluest eyes of the man who has my whole heart once more. Until then know that I, as I always have and always will, will be thinking of you. Someone, somewhere on this beautiful, hellish planet loves you unconditionally, wholeheartedly. The words that drip onto this paper really have no meaning when it comes to my love for you, and I fear there are no words in any language on Earth that can truly express it. One day I will just have to show you.
Sincerely,
Hopeless
In an earlier letter I had stressed, albeit prematurely and dramatically, that I had been worried whether or not you are alive or dead. This isn't the case. Sometimes I get swept up in emotions and really sets in the anxious worries of a woman. I confess I do not escape these. I know you are alive, my dearest, for I can feel your heart beat as ever real as my own. Although the truth be is that I do not know if you are back on the war front of that devastating place. That devastating place which, because of you, will always hold a special place in my heart. A place where I had no intention or curiosity to visit before, I now yearn to walk the sands and wear the veils and maybe someday see where you had sat up in your bed for hours on end writing me those letters. I still cherish very item you have shipped to me from that exotic place. The red burqa which rests on my nightstand, a place where I see it every morning when I wake up and every night before I fall asleep. Another memory of you that constantly replays in my mind.
You had remembered that red wasn't my favorite color, but for some reason the color has chosen me and somehow associates itself with me and has done so throughout my years on this Earth. You had picked red because it follows me, because it is the color of love, because it was your favorite color, because it was our color.
I know that visiting the exact place where you lay your head to rest must sound a little improbable, for you had always written in the letters, "I can't tell you where I am," and, "I cannot say where I am going." But, my love, stranger things have happened, and in my short life on this Earth I have learned that nothing, and I mean nothing, is impossible. For after all, we are a tiny colonization pushing papers and worshiping idols among a floating blue rock. The word has no meaning to me, for impossible in itself, is false.
Good God, listen to me. I am rambling. My intention of this letter was to correct a mistaken passage I had so fervently written before. I know you are alive, my dearest, as I can still feel you breathing. You are worlds away and yet I can still feel you, this alone tells me you are alive and well.
Although I must say I can still feel your distress, my beloved. You recall those late nights when I would ask you what was wrong, even though you showed no signs of distress whatsoever? You would look at me with such sadness and confess your deepest feelings, usually involving the grim truth of our forbidden love and how we could never be together. Tears would sometimes stream our faces as you opened your arms to me when words escaped you. I would fall into them and hold onto you for dear life. We would kiss each others tears away and at least try to comfort the other with words of, "let's just enjoy these moments, here and now" and while we did, the creeping truth lurking in the background would sprout up and scream that this will not last forever. Those moments that we did cherish I still hold on to and I am thankful that we lived them with each other to the fullest.
We fought, so valiantly, for each other until the bitter end. Moments of weakness, or strength, I have a hard time deciphering between the two because they seem to both have such strong tendencies in both realities, in both worlds, that I know not which is more true. Sometimes I think we ended up together in that other world, in that alternate reality, the one where we fought harder for one another, the one where our love really did beat the odds.
Oh my dearest J, how I wish to look into the bluest eyes of the man who has my whole heart once more. Until then know that I, as I always have and always will, will be thinking of you. Someone, somewhere on this beautiful, hellish planet loves you unconditionally, wholeheartedly. The words that drip onto this paper really have no meaning when it comes to my love for you, and I fear there are no words in any language on Earth that can truly express it. One day I will just have to show you.
Sincerely,
Hopeless
Wednesday, November 20, 2013
Before I met you
Before I met you the dreams of my heart were lost many years ago. I often recall my old fantasies, usually in the dead of night when everyone else is asleep and my eyes refuse to shut with the haunting cries of my soul finally awake. They scream and mourn the death of my once alive feminine day dreams; finding true love infused with many adventures of the open road. This is where I felt most at home and even dreaming about it eased my restless soul. The road is where my heart lies, where my soul is most free. Nothing but a stretch of highway lay before me, not knowing which exit to take or where I’m going, which city I will visit next, what wilderness I will rest at for the night only to let my mind, body and soul heal with the elements. The trees, the clouds, the birds, the insects, the dirt and grass all wrapping around me as I truly become one with this Earth. This beautiful planet we take for granted only to replace it with suburban cages and society's burdens.
I live in a beautiful home with an equally beautiful man. He has given me everything society has wanted for me and I should be more grateful. Yet the call of the wild tears me away from giving him my full heart, and I fear he doesn’t understand. I am two people, two women locked in the same body. One cooks, cleans, takes care of her husband by rubbing his tired feet and fulfills his every desire both in and outside of the bedroom. The other is lost, a wild woman at heart yearning to return to the open road and experiencing everything this world, this life has to offer.
This can’t be it for me. There is something missing, a whole in my heart which refuses to close no matter how many times I try to lock the wild woman in her cage. She screams and scratches her way out until she is once again sitting alone in her dark corner, the black room of my mind where she patiently waits with her knees to her chest, her hair a tangled mess and streaks of dirt running rampant across her face. Her barbaric eyes darting in the darkness searching for that dream to breathe to life once again.
I remember the days when she was happy. She would wake me up in the dead of night, grab hold of me and take me away. I would pack only what I needed and head off before the sun awoke, leaving my friends and family behind only to be with myself, to find myself once more. I was most wild when I was at the young age of seventeen, traveling around the United States in my beat up old red truck, stopping only when I needed to. I was grateful and happy. Grateful because the people I would leave behind for weeks on end understood. My mother covering my tracks, telling people, “She has a free spirit. She’ll return when she’s ready.”
It is true that I do possess my mother’s spirit. I inherited my wildness from the deepest part of her heart, an ocean of dreams and a yearning for excitement and adventure that seems to have only grown with me. An overgrown wilderness destined to overflow with such force that is only known by mother nature herself. It explodes, threatening to break me until I succumb to it’s powerful strain.
I became a wife at the age of twenty-two. I was lost in love with this man and I would have given up everything for him, even my will to run free. I tamed myself, telling myself it was time to grow up and become what everyone wanted me to be. My freedom days were over and now is the time to let all those childish fantasies go. I needed to help support my family, for who can make an occupation out of a drifter? Society threatened to exile me if I didn’t contribute and the house wife inside me awakened and took over. She helped the wild woman back into her cage, brushing her hair back and whispering in her ear that everything would be alright.
But everything isn’t alright. Not anymore. The wild woman is restless and hungry, and is done being patient. She is clawing her way out of her cage despite the many attempts made by the house wife telling her, no, lying to her that everything will be okay.
There was an epic battle between the two. The house wife’s pristine apron is now torn and thrown to the floor like forgotten trash and she is now cowering in the dark corner, the wild woman standing triumphant over her.
I have a bag packed. I have my keys in my hand and my heart beating, my soul vibrating as I take one last look around my beautiful home. The same home the house wife has built with her own hands. I feel the wild woman try to calm her, stroking her hair back and despite their fight they still have a love for each other, a deeper love that one can only feel for oneself. They are me, and I am them. They are my children, these two women living in my head, and it’s only fair I give them both the same amount of attention. The house wife nods and closes her eyes, tired from all the years of being perfect. She falls asleep with a smile on her face despite the unknowing of what she will wake up to.
The wild woman smiles in return, kissing her forehead, “Rest now. Everything will be alright.”
She is finally free.
Sincerely,
Sincerely,
Hopeless
Tuesday, November 19, 2013
War, of all things, had brought us together.
19 November
J,
J,
I find myself searching for you every time I leave the confines of my home. As I approach a looming corner my heart beats beyond the maximum level of survival, somewhat like a galloping thoroughbred. In a moment of undeniable insanity I imagine you are standing there around that corner, waiting for me. I cannot help but feel my heart descend, as if plummeting to Earth from the clouds, when I realize you are nowhere to be seen. I do acknowledge how silly I am being. You are worlds away and, yet, in my mind time and space elude me. I picture you will just appear, ready to sweep me away like a ravaging current, and I, not willing to fight, surrender to you.
Still you are nowhere to be found just yet. Truth be told I have no idea whether you are dead or alive. A morbidly sobering and frightful thought on my part. Communication between us had been abruptly shut down, as you can remember, in a moment of, well, strength. Yes, strength would have to be the dreadful word for this undeniable truth.
War, of all things, had brought us together. War had given us love. How funny to think of it in such a fashion, but alas, it is true. How I regret it, the dire moment of otherworldly courage which struck us both so suddenly, the instant I had lost you forever. The moment silence overcame us was the moment a part of me perished.
You are home from the war now and because of your homeward bound departure, all communication has thus ceased between us. I often lay awake at night and still dream of your voice whispering to me in my ear, telling me stories of another life where we can somehow be together, your voice like honey as it soothes my aching heart, coaxing me to sleep.
I can sometimes hear it as vividly as if you were standing right there beside me, for your voice is, to me, ever more real than my own.
Sincerely,
Hopeless
Perhaps I have gone mad
19 November
My Dearest J,
I often do wonder if I have, indeed, gone mad. Reality sets in during moments of undeniable sobriety and I cannot help but believe it myself, for I fully understand that I am chasing after a ghost. A beautiful, wondrous, wild and dangerous entity but still, a ghost.
Is it so utterly terrible to want more? I am at war with myself. Since the dawn of time most souls yearn for adventure, complete with the kind of love that releases us, a kind where time itself can surrender and stand still for. Yet my fantasies, although exhilarating, grab me by the neck and threaten to hold until the last breath escapes my lips. Why?
It is true that, by law, I belong to another, as do you. Marriage is a frightful thing, signing our lives away in a few moments of passion and submission.
Good God, listen to me. Perhaps I have gone mad. I sit and wonder how selfish I am being. Then, in a moment of freedom, I allow my thoughts to wander about as if they are lost and waiting for the other half of my soul to find them. They run away from me and no matter how hard I try to catch them, they always find their way back to you.
I have yet to meet someone on this Earth who knows what they are doing. Many have lost hope and I fear, that alone, will be our demise.
Why do I feel like this? In fear people will look at me with condemning eyes? Yes. We yearn for love and, some of us, marriage. We as humans are expected to stay faithful. Yet we have one shot at picking the right mate. We are expected to live with that choice happy or not. We, as humans, are expected to be perfect.
Considering what and who we are as a collective species, shouldn't that, in itself, be considered madness?
Sincerely,
Hopeless
My Dearest J,
I often do wonder if I have, indeed, gone mad. Reality sets in during moments of undeniable sobriety and I cannot help but believe it myself, for I fully understand that I am chasing after a ghost. A beautiful, wondrous, wild and dangerous entity but still, a ghost.
Is it so utterly terrible to want more? I am at war with myself. Since the dawn of time most souls yearn for adventure, complete with the kind of love that releases us, a kind where time itself can surrender and stand still for. Yet my fantasies, although exhilarating, grab me by the neck and threaten to hold until the last breath escapes my lips. Why?
It is true that, by law, I belong to another, as do you. Marriage is a frightful thing, signing our lives away in a few moments of passion and submission.
Good God, listen to me. Perhaps I have gone mad. I sit and wonder how selfish I am being. Then, in a moment of freedom, I allow my thoughts to wander about as if they are lost and waiting for the other half of my soul to find them. They run away from me and no matter how hard I try to catch them, they always find their way back to you.
I have yet to meet someone on this Earth who knows what they are doing. Many have lost hope and I fear, that alone, will be our demise.
Why do I feel like this? In fear people will look at me with condemning eyes? Yes. We yearn for love and, some of us, marriage. We as humans are expected to stay faithful. Yet we have one shot at picking the right mate. We are expected to live with that choice happy or not. We, as humans, are expected to be perfect.
Considering what and who we are as a collective species, shouldn't that, in itself, be considered madness?
Sincerely,
Hopeless
My Dearest J,
18 November
J,
I wish I could get you out of my head. It's been well over a year now and every day I see you. There is always something that reminds me of you, even if it is pure silence. You come waltzing into my head unannounced as if you live there, and still I cannot help but smile.
I'm sorry I hurt you. It will be the biggest regret of my life not meeting you in New Orleans. The truth is I was all set to go. I had my bags packed, ticket in hand but I started thinking and then fear set in. The fear of finally seeing you and having everything we have ever talked about come true and falling so hopelessly in love with you that I would never want to return. I was afraid I wouldn't be able to let you go, for after meeting you I wouldn't have been strong enough to leave you. This silent torture I have been living with since the moment I met you is nothing compared to that regret and for that I am truly sorry. It is still terribly romantic to me, and even though I live every day knowing of the possibility that you have moved on I still can't help but be stuck in those mid July conversations.
J,
I wish I could get you out of my head. It's been well over a year now and every day I see you. There is always something that reminds me of you, even if it is pure silence. You come waltzing into my head unannounced as if you live there, and still I cannot help but smile.
I'm sorry I hurt you. It will be the biggest regret of my life not meeting you in New Orleans. The truth is I was all set to go. I had my bags packed, ticket in hand but I started thinking and then fear set in. The fear of finally seeing you and having everything we have ever talked about come true and falling so hopelessly in love with you that I would never want to return. I was afraid I wouldn't be able to let you go, for after meeting you I wouldn't have been strong enough to leave you. This silent torture I have been living with since the moment I met you is nothing compared to that regret and for that I am truly sorry. It is still terribly romantic to me, and even though I live every day knowing of the possibility that you have moved on I still can't help but be stuck in those mid July conversations.
I will admit I have been through every emotion when I think of you. Anger, sadness, happiness, hope, fear. At one point I had convinced myself to hate you, or at least tell myself you were not who I know you to be. I had convinced myself that you had only used me during your deployment as something to fill up and pass the time. But then I remembered who you are and knew that ridiculous thought wasn't true.
I do know the consequences of our time together and understand that we can never be. We have chosen to be apart of the greatest love story of the century and slowly, each day, it has chipped away at us, breaking us down until we move about mechanically, yet still holding onto that last ray of hope that one day, even if by a chance meeting we will lock eyes and become rejuvenated once again.
I apologize if I am being too forward, for even though I still know you, I do understand that after all this time has passed I must be a stranger to you now. Unfortunately I fear I have possessed the last remaining hopeless romantic heart and you have been burdened with the role as my muse, a muse whom I have had the greatest privilege of knowing. One who was, from my point of view, never able to truly speak with his heart. This torture, this mystery, keeps my fantasies going and I need that to survive this dreary world. Even if you have moved on, please I beg of you, do not tell me, don't even respond. Let me keep the memory of us alive and well.
If you do still think of me, as I you, then I might propose the exhilarating yet dangerous notion of conversing again. If not, know that I, as I always have, will understand.
If that be the case then maybe we'll meet under better circumstances in the next life.
With all my heart,
If that be the case then maybe we'll meet under better circumstances in the next life.
With all my heart,
Hopeless
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