I have begun writing a letter. It is a love letter. I don’t care much for bottled fragrances, so I pressed a little ash from the incense sticks on the paper. I ran the pen over the grey powder. It was like chasing ants. I imagined an ant-hill forming. Then I would prod it and it would spread out…again words, ashes, ants…
I am using a loopy handwriting, like they do in calligraphy. A ballpoint pen is not great for it, but one tries. Big curls, dots like concentric circles.
The first sentence I wrote was, “I don’t know you, but I want to…” It sounded good, it felt good. What sounds good does not always feel good, you know.
I wanted to write about shining eyes and lips wet with tears, about aching and craving. Instead, I wrote next, “If I got to know you, would I really like you? Would you be the person I created? Are you like what I think you are?”
The letter is unfinished. I cannot go further. The recipient will have to wait.
I can wait. The letter is anyway addressed to me.
Megalomania or melancholia?