A Letter of Apology

We always believe at least in our hearts that we would not ever hurt a person for whom we care for all the world. And, for those who genuinely believe in the innocence and the morality associated with it, it just breaks apart the soul.

For my part, I always had faith in the goodness that is beyond the worldly pleasures, that connects us with the true self within us. I share a tendency to reduce everything I encounter to the bare minimum and then look for its existence within me. Most of the time, if it is there, the feeling would find its way to my bedside. It would just creep into my dreams for me to claim it. You may call me old school or even superstitious but I do believe in the energy, the aura, surrounding a person. The modern lingo for it is vibe to make it sound more light and cool. That gut feeling, that intuition, that inner conscience is very important for me to know if I share a real connection. Words follow. 

Maybe that is why it takes time for me to understand the blurry lines that fall even before the words fall from your lips. I often find myself stretching it to lengths that know no bounds. All the soft little secrets are food for my soul, my desires, my fantasies. As an extremely sensitive person, my mind does not immediately hook up in a linear fashion and my heart is fragile. It is such a painful reality but do I want to get rid of it? I do not think it is possible. Some people are like that and you cannot help but accept them just the way they are. 

Despite everything I told you by now, I do not mean to convince you that I am the best moral person I know. Because I honestly believe that those persons who fall in this category as I just mentioned are among the best manipulative persons you would ever get. For those who claim that their hearts are as pure as elixirs are the ones who would bewilder you with their deep-seated callousness. It is because they touch each night the strings of words that have never been spoken, the nights that do not ever turn into bright rays of broad daylight. 

Yes, I would tell for everyone to hear that my rage knows no mercy. It does not shudder to think of my heroes killed in cold blood. The wild streak in me would equal nothing but hysteria. I do fuck dead men sometimes. I found a new term for myself recently, moral corruption. 

But, before I go further and keep on describing my subjectivity to you, I want you to know one thing: my subjectivity is nothing without your objectivity. The insights you have after a good and heartfelt conversation are beyond anything else. 

Still, no word of mine could ever take away the way you have felt for me. I would defend that over my dead body. Though that does not mean I would let myself slide in utter silence. For I know the exact number of sighs I have taken over you, the exact number of hours I have spent waiting, the exact number of woke eyes I have dreamt of you. And I won't change that for anybody, no not even you. 

It took me a great deal of time to reach this point and I still know that blurriness would remain. My heart would weep for the loss but all I could ask for is forgiveness. Whether or not new chapters in my life are unfolding, I only want to caress honesty, caress truth, caress love. I have cherished these values throughout my life and life with all its sweet delicacies does not love me more than death does. I can leave it unkissed for a moment but I cannot let death cry, it knows the sublimity of my bare body.