I guess my moving to Europe was a mistake after all.
It's been too long, and time is much too strong to be forfeited. The young wrinkles of my misfortunes have now turned to deep, indelible creases. I have spent many hours and many words trying to fathom what kind of reality brought me here, what hidden lure pushed me back to a past I considered gone for so long.
What am I doing here? Why did I decide to veer into this path knowing that I, more than anyone else, would be the one who would hurt the most? Was it guilt? Was it my last attempt to find the right and definitive evidence that I don't, and never will, belong here again or anymore?
Answers, my friend, are always easier in hindsight, and that benefit I still lack.
My life has become an automated gesture. It feels like there is always a thin, frail thread holding laughter and sorrow so closely together, making my feelings as volatile as the flight of a bumble bee. I wish I could go back home; I wish I could make her happier by giving her back the very thing I stole from her: Vivacity.
The closer I get to making a decision, the faster my fears grow. I am afraid. Afraid of what may happen to me, to us, to our lives, to our personalities. I want to say Yes to a new life, but insights of my present can only remind me there is risk.
I feel so uncertain. Not about my feelings for her, which I hold as a steady truth, but about myself, about my own mind. Hadn't she been here with me, I would've cracked a long time ago. But that is a consolation, not a solution. I believe she knows that as well.
Sometimes I think I shouldn't be complaining. I'm afraid too much whining might lead to some irrationality, or the mistaken assumption that this moment is something smaller, or less important. I am always afraid that repetition will lead to forgetfulness or contempt.
Life should not be about a place. Life should be everywhere, everywhere life.
Do I sound dull, Erik?
I am sorry. I don't mean to bug you. I just wanted to talk, really. That kind of talk that can only take place in a letter, the kind of talk that requires more reflection than speed or the ordinary, daily wit.
I guess I should leave you now...
I feel like an idiot writing you this letter. It sounds so selfish. I've typed so many paragraphs and they were all about me, me, me. Not even a "Hi, How Are You?" line. Nothing. Could you forgive me, my friend? Could you indulge my fears for this one time while I try to find the right answers?
I hope you do, for I have little else to say, ask or pray to tonight.
My head is dozing off on the account of the wine, and my muscles feel strained, stiff. I looked out the window just a minute ago, and the darkness outside was only interrupted by the shimmering street lights branching off very tall posts lined up on the narrow sidewalks.
It's deceiving to see the world when it's asleep. Everyone seems more serene, more beautiful, and more righteous when they're sleeping. That's a fact of life, I guess. We can't be monsters with our eyes closed,