I bring you with reverent hands, as Yeats once said, the books of my numberless dreams. They're stacked in ascending alphabetical order. At the bottom of the pile you'll find the first volume, which I call "Anatomies." In that book, I describe my ideal woman in the smallest details: From personality and intelligence, to hairdo, color of eyes, gesturing, and positioning of hands, which, after all, is of utmost importance to stimulate my sexual instincts. Lately, I have been thinking about renaming that book "Coincidences." But I shall not digress.
In the small library you'll also find a book entitled "Journeys," where I describe my adventures in foreign lands, my thoughts about music, and how I love the juxtaposition of chords and notes and timbres to denote passion and emotions. In that book, I also describe my love for the unknown, for the extraordinary, for the things that make us feel human, the things that make us feel glad to be alive.
I have also enclosed a book called "Fantasies," where my unfulfilled dreams rest. That's where you'll discover the hidden secrets of my crazy personality, the desire to have become a rock star, a painter, a writer, a poet, a Renaissance man of sorts. That's the book where I describe my wish to give back to the world a little bit of what I've taken from it, to be a source of inspiration to others. It sounds presumptuous, I know, but, believe me, the dreams in there are all made of the purest of intentions, like a smile of a newborn child.
You'll also find a volume with red hard covers, which I call "Hell." That's where my failures and mistakes are outlined, mostly in a chronological fashion. It might be a bit boring to read after all, mainly because many chapters sound utterly repetitive. I've tried to learn from this book, but not always successfully. Please refer to page 176, where chapter "Jealousy" starts.
A book entitled "Blue" is one of my favorites. That's my book of the universe, where I express my thoughts about the world, about our nature as human beings, about the endless possibilities of philosophy, about the variations of letters, my readings of Borges, and my whimsical understanding of Joyce. That's the index to my library, the plot of my personal journey through this land of ours.
In the same package, you'll find a small paperback entitled "Home." That's the one I carried with me throughout my wanderings, and my trips around the world. It's handwritten, and I'm sure you will realize the different intensity of my writing, as well as the varying inclination of the characters, which reflect the alterations in my mood, and sensitivity, as the days progressed. Call it a journal, if you will. "Home" has been my companion in times of solitude for many, many years.
There's a thin volume I call "Religion." I pondered quite a lot whether I should've included that one in the package I now hand to you. After all, the humanist in me speaks too loud sometimes. But I remember times of losses, and death of beloved friends and family members, when, not understanding, or, maybe, still the hopeful I once was, I turned to old scriptures as a way to comfort my troubling heart. It didn't last long, and I never quite finish the book. But I thought that what I had, I should show you.
And then there's "Love." As you'll see, it's a thick volume filled with blank pages. That's the one I could not get myself to write properly. That's the one I have started many, many times, but was never inspired enough to finish. I guess I just can't do that one alone for no imagination in the world can replace the touch of a caring hand, or the meeting of loving lips. But while I lack the words to write it, I know now to whom I should dedicate it. May its first page forever read: "To Jane, my love."