It was simply a letter. Only this letter was meant to explain
his feelings, and it was specifically directed to her. He thought carefully
about what he would say. Would he simply tell her how he felt or would he tell
her how he felt in a way that only she would understand? His words had value to
her and he did not want to disappoint. Such a difficult task for such a complex
mind would take time, and time was something that he did not have or like to
waste. He knew exactly how he felt, and now it was time to set about saying it.
As he started to write he could see her face, it was smiling in a way only she
smiled, and in a way that he loved. It reminded him of many things but the
first and foremost was that he had come to know the person behind the smile and
she made him laugh when he wanted to cry, and the voice behind that smile made
him want to listen to her, for she had a way of comforting him that no one else
could. Then there were the eyes, what lovely jewels they were, staring not only
at him but into him piercing through all the built up layers that he had placed
to keep people out. She had found a way to penetrate his defenses and get into
his mind which only a few people had ever been able to do. She had seen
something in him that she liked and was curious to know more, which made him
feel comfortable and wanting to not only write the letter but to write it in a
way that he had never been able to write before. This letter would need to be
written to describe feelings that had been locked away for some time and he
needed to think carefully, something that he was not known for, since he had
always flown by the seat of his pants and worn his feelings on his shirt
sleeve, blurting out whatever came to his mind. No, this letter had to be
different, it would be difficult but he knew that he could do it, and he knew
how important it was to get it right. So the letter began:
My dear .....
And then it stopped. Gone were the words that he had wanted
to say, taken from him like sand washed away by the tide, grain by grain until
there is nothing left. Only a memory, faded but still vivid in every detail was
left to guide his words. He struggled, and the more that he struggled the
harder it became, like a knot tightening around the very thoughts that he was
trying to express with his words. He finally realized that the struggle was
what he had been focusing on, not his feelings for her, and it was about to
change, she deserved more, and now it was time for him to say how he felt to
her and stop writing about the pain that he endured and move on to the next
chapter of his life. This letter was one of the most important things that he
would ever do, and what he had discovered was that he needed her help, and that
is what he had been trying to say all along, and apologize for saying anything
else. He loved her and needed to say it in a way that only she would
understand, it didn't matter if anyone else would.
It was simply a letter, it had always been and will always
be, so why was it so difficult to write?
Robert
2016
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