For quite a while now, I have been learning German. It is fun, and productive. That other day, I found a collection of used German books, among which was included a comic-book. Feeling the joy that this might be something I can read and enjoy, I bought it. Later, in my home, while browsing through it, some sheets of paper flew out. It was a letter. A love-letter. In German. Of someone I did not know. To someone I didn't really know. Feeling safe, I decided to read it. It was written in proficient German, enough for me not to have understood about 40% of the content. But the part that I understood, was so moving, so sad, so universal, that I decided to reproduce it, hiding some of the explicit names and places which might the give the actual people away. Whatever be the case, I did not doubt for a moment that this actually happened. Somewhere in Switzerland. Using some of my personal experience to fill in the gaps that I didn't actually understand, here is a reasonable reproduction. The writing style has been somewhat modified partially due to translation, and partially due to my own style; but I think I have been completely true to the feelings in the letter. Because, to a large extent, I felt a resonance of attitude with the author. I do not know what actually happened to the couple, but I do sincerely hope that where ever they are, they are together, and they are happy.
Dear Beloved,
I have purposely chosen not to name you, since I don't think naming you will help either of us in any way. Your name, your gender, my gender, doesn't really matter, since I love you, and as they say love knows no boundaries. And if you get this letter, you will know the author.
The first question I am asking myself is that why am I writing this letter? Not to make you in fall in love with me, not just expressing my love -- which I have already done before, but more as an expression of my feelings. The truth is that there is such an overwhelming of emotions about you within me that I cannot fully expresses it. Not being able to express my feelings frustrate me, pressurize me to the point of bursting like a balloon. In the past, I have felt that I am better at sitting down and expressing my feelings on paper; so I am going to try that one more time.
Is it only because of this? No, there is a even bigger reason. You do not love me back. Perhaps you never will. And then sometime Time will make sure that the Love dies. Because we didn't nurture it. Not all kinds of Love can be sustained by a single parent. And then there will be no memories of this, because we never experienced this feeling together. Therefore, I am going to be terribly selfish, and talk about only my pains.
Perhaps you care about me. Perhaps something prevents you from expressing you love. Perhaps you do not really care. Perhaps you still love your ex so very much. Or perhaps you get repelled from me for some reason. But I would always assume that you behave the way you find necessary so as to not to hurt me. And this assumption is somehow based on the fact that I don't understand you. Maybe I don't even try to understand you from your point of view because that would make my crazy.
I remember every single detail of the day I met you for the first time. Nothing special happened then. In fact nothing happened again the first time I talked with you for some time. Nothing much happened on the first dinner we went out together with friends, in a predictably Italian restaurant. And then it happened: like a blitz, the next time we were out, I was head over heels in love with you. And that was so unexpected. I was not expecting me to fall in love with you; or with anyone else for that matter. And that is why it hit hard. Hit very very hard.
Perhaps you noticed. Perhaps you did not. But you were friendly as ever. You didn't move your legs away when I touched them with my legs. All unconsciously, all lost in the haze of interesting conversation. Those were the days of immense bliss. Always trying to sit next to you, always trying to talk to you, always trying to make you feel special, always trying to see that you didn't have any problems. Days of exchanging non-consequential information over messages. Me being under the illusion that you also might like me in some vague way. Stupid of me, silly of me, and done without letting anyone know, in the cover of discretion. And yet we talked. And we went out with friends together.
And then that day it happened. You were late for lunch, and so was I. And although we had our lunches separately, I asked you if you wanted to go for a coffee with me. You said yes. And we went. And we talked again. But no one was with us. And things got personal. We exchanged a couple of personal information. Somehow you gave me the precise information I wanted to hear --- something I was expecting every moment, but lacking the courage to ask. And then I asked you if you were with someone. And you said no. And then I told you.
I told you that how much I loved you. Well, I didn't exactly tell you that --- but I told you that I felt a bond with you, I felt myself very much attracted to you. And I felt you hesitantly draw back. From inside. In your feelings. I could feel your surprise. Surely you had me figured out all right? How could you be surprised? And then you told me that you didn't feel anything special for me. And something in me stopped. You told me that you didn't see me any differently from other colleagues. And I flinched back --- I hated myself. I regretted the whole episode. I felt miserable. I tried to think what was wrong in what I had said or did. Something must have been wrong. I must have said something wrong. What? But I didn't have the courage to ask you that.
Everyone else in the Cafe were busy talking. They must have been talking about very nice things, or I must have been putting up a brave face -- they did not notice at least a single heart break into two. Cocooned in a blanket of welcoming sunlight in the chilly winter afternoon, no one noticed that my period of depression had started. But why blame others --- I myself had no idea of what I was getting into.
That weekend was hell. I tried to justify to myself that I had done the right thing in telling you. Over and over again. And nothing else would come to mind. Nothing, nothing and again nothing. Thankfully, people around were contemplating whether to shut the EU citizens out for good; and no one noticed my misery. And secretly I hoped that it would become all right with time. You would perhaps get to like me. And I would try. We exchanged some messages that weekend, but I was cautious and you were friendly.
Over the week, I met you again, and again you were very friendly. You were talking like always. And I did not dare to hope much, but just a subdued feeling from last week. But you were there, like the cheerful and colorful ray of spring killing the desolation of the winter. And again I realized how helplessly in love I was with you.
And again the Spring let me hope. I tried to message you, and got nice and friendly replies back. And you smiled in the messages. Did anyone ever tell you how sweet you look when you smile? And also when you don't? I could lose my whole existence just by staring into your eyes. Has anyone told you these nuanced things? Except that all I say is completely true --- all which I have personally felt. How could your former lover let you go? I would love you so, so much. Make you feel so much special that you would never want to leave. Ever. I never told you all this, but if I did, you would stop and think that what a huge maniac I am.
No, my dear, all this is what I think. What I feel. For you. None of this will be transformed to craziness. Since a Love can be pure, it can be good, can be constructive, and when treated with reason it does not seek to harm anybody, --- it just looks for some shelter, some acceptance. And then it dies, when it doesn't find any shelter. Sometimes quickly, but whenever slowly, it brings unbearable pain to its host. Such despair. And sometimes it leaves some memories. Painful ones, perhaps.
In my despair, I asked you out again. For a moment, I sensed the hesitation in your reply whether to accept. And finally you refused. Saying that you didn't know me enough. Yes, I agreed, but how else would we get to know each other. And you said I would get too involved. I sensed your hesitation, your reluctance, but yet was powerless to do anything about it. How could I? When every detail about you would bind themselves in my heart, my brain, in my very existence, refusing to let go? And yet, I never understood why you weren't interested. I had no clue. I have lots of guesses. And every guess had something negative about me. And with every guess my confidence in myself went down.
One day we went out. To buy some clothes. It was the happiest moment for me since I got to spend some time alone with you. We went in and out into the shops of the old town, talking and chatting about everyday things. And stupid me, the chatterbox that I am, I kept on asking questions about you, all in the innocence of getting to know you better. And every answer I got only brought me closer to you. Only me. I would think how enjoyable it would be, if we ever together. But all this was so stupid, so much in vain. And when we met some friends in one of the shops, I felt the guilty pleasure of a boy being discovered while doing some mischief. And yet, so much romantic. Later, I would think about this moment and wonder how it would feel to give you a hug and hold you in my arms. Perhaps overwhelming. Perhaps I would never know. It was one of the happiest days in my life.
And slowly as I thought got to know you better, you grew more and more distant. Your messages to my queries grew more and more monosyllabic; and that day you told me again explicitly that you were not interested in me. Getting more and more frustrated, I realized what a huge misunderstanding this was. Not that I had hoped too much to happen. But the root cause is that I am very optimistic, far more optimistic than the normal person --- and in many cases I end up thinking about much more happy scenario that can result in conclusion. I tried to become more aloof, and let you be. And here I have to be selfish, and tell you that this was at a tremendous cost to myself.
I forced myself to be busy in ways I would not have dreamed possible. Too much sports. Too less food. Too much work. Too less sleep. And yet it would not help. Dear Love, you would not know, but there is a stretch of a few minutes walk from the train station to my apartment. This one day I got out of the train thinking about something else, and then midway your thoughts hit me so hard. And I cried, I cried on the way home; feeling the cold, the helplessness; and feeling blessed that the darkness hid my face to the few people that might have been passing by. And I don't want you or anyone else to feel pity for me. No, surely not: these feelings of sadness and love I have for you are pure, are beautiful, and serene: they surely do not deserve pity.
Finally, when I thought that the worst had passed, I asked you if we could just be friends. And you snapped at me saying that you didn't even want to be friends with me, I was just an acquaintance for you. And you told me that I was trying to invade your private life, and make you uncomfortable. And stalking you. And you blocked me from all your social circles. Really, you must have thought that I was a manic; a pervert, a deranged personality, with perhaps an obsessive compulsive disorder. A crazy guy.
I did not know what to say to all that. I still don't. I don't blame you. I won't ever. Perhaps earlier I did show some of this despair. But surely you did notice that in the last few weeks I became more and more restrained. But, truth be told my dear, I did not know what to do, and how to do things. I have been in love before, and it was an intense, extreme love; but it began very gradually, which meant that I could assess and control my reactions.
With you, it was an explosion. There was such a flurry of emotions within me, that it became hard to keep all of it inside. But, all positive. Until of course you refused. And then there was such despair. Every day it grew worse. Nearly everyday I would think of you, and cry uncontrollably. Should people be ashamed of crying? No.. why should they be? Crying is not about weakness. Crying about something is showing your pure emotions about it, and I have done no wrong. So these cries of despair went on, unheard, and untouched and unprocessed. Frankly, I began to be overwhelmed by the feelings I possessed for you. I would think about you every night before I went to sleep, every morning when I got up. And as I tried more and more not to think about you during the day, the more you appeared in my dreams. I have been in deeply in love before, but perhaps with not such intensity. I would put on songs which reminded me about you and listen to them in full concentration with my eyes closed and trying to picture you.
I have not the courage to tell you all this -- perhaps you'll stop speaking to me all together. That perhaps is a bigger blow than I can take at the moment. Therefore, I will just content to be your colleague, and try, try, try my very best in not showing the slightest hint my feelings for you. Do nothing that makes you uncomfortable. What this leaves in store for me, I do not know. I do not think I can forget my feelings for you in such a hurry. You have changed me --- irreversibly. In a way I could not have imagined. You never perhaps realized it, but I go so much inspired from you in certain respects. You made me feel LOVE as I have never felt before, the love in all its beauty, its grandeur, its power, and its despair. Whatever happens I will never forget this.
And with this line you know that I have not stopped hoping. I do not know if you will get this letter or not, if you will read it or not; and if the latter, you will perhaps never know of the intensity of my feelings. And I do not have the courage to tell this to you in person, since I know you will only think worse about me.
You once told me that why would I want to share my private life. But a life is only private if there is someone to share it with. I could not share all my sorrows and problems with my friends, and the friend I could share things with is now gone. I wonder how it is with you. I wonder if you have loved somebody with this intensity. Oh, lucky -- that lucky person.
And that day you remarked that you were adorable. I fully agreed. Silently.
Endless love from someone who has spend two and half months of loving you non-stop!
xxxxxxx
