A Letter to Valentin.

“Valentin, You make me write. My stream of thought becomes more than the madman under the bridge. Everything I may dissect; all I can deconstruct and reorder with words is given a new life. Each strip of my imagination and every one of my rearranged philosophies is given a purpose, so long as you live to read them; so long as you don’t tire of the foreign thoughts. I’ve become a paradox of an author. If there’s nobody to perceive these letters, it’s as if they’ve ceased to exist, their sentiment becomes void. I feel without you, they’d wither. Perhaps it’s the nature of what I write, alone I’m confined, trapped between the four dimensions of my mind, with you it develops, multiplying with a new life no-one else could give it. I don’t know how. I don’t know why It’s been gifted a soul I couldn’t find alone, but I know it’s for the better, and I can pretend that its fate. The world takes on a new light, my eyes see from a new angle. I know now what it is to flourish, to be found and founded at once. I know what it is to fear I may feel all I'll ever feel; and to be given the promise of more by the very one who makes me fear a lack of it. To become an aesthete and know it. To have a new world shown to me, and to instinctively embrace it. The reassurance I sought after for so long finds me itself. To have found life is dangerous, to find life drives men mad, but to be gifted this and throw it away would be a betrayal of my own morals, the morals given to me by the same mind that now tells me why I live, what I live for. Though I'm plagued in darker hours by the worry of abandon, it’s the very thing you uncovered in me that would have me hold on despite losing you. I will live for life in my own perspective. I will live life for feeling, for feeling is life’s nature, and you gave it to me, so perhaps it’s natural that for you I feel more than for any other. For you I feel love.”


by Anonymous

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