For quite a time have I been at a loss for words. I have intended to write, really, and yet, every time I dare so, the words leave my head blank; feelings leave me empty…lost. Thrice this month now have I been utterly disappointed, the causes of which I have no pleasure to write nor dwell upon. When I began to write about her, about us, she must have known…or felt. For by degrees my dreams of her became obscurer than ever. Often, I wake up feeling I’ve dreamt of her, and yet such dreams I can no longer recall. One might ask, how can I say that my dreams about her have become obscure? I only feel, but I am not sure. I can never be quite sure, for I can’t even recall. Perhaps that woman has left me already?
To this I’d say I must have emboldened myself into some sort of neurosis, for such is the only name I can attribute to this, my dilemma, that perchance define it. This dilemma which I’d hardly even call one. This growing addiction to the notion of her being there—always there. And yet, perhaps I also love the idea of my having gone quite neurotic. God, how I jest. I loathe myself.
Nonetheless, now I write again. Alas! I write not without confusion, for she refuses now to come by. I must have tarried longer, that perhaps she had grown tired. Yet, ’round she is. I close my eyes and there her presence looms. Just as recently when I had a most disappointing day—that circumstance that lead one to sleep. Hmm. That, I remember clearly.
Distinctly, whilst still awake and ’round people, I was agonizing over some damned tears which I’d say I have triumphed over—but soon did drop barely after I tucked myself to bed. Scarcely have I closed my eyes whence I found myself transported under such a starry night. Such trees there were that towered one after the other, but some I should think bear the same height. Their leaves made quite a dense ceiling that obscured some of the stars, but allowed blotches of holes as only added weight to the beauty of the sky. These ceilings however, have been separated by a wide stream which mirrored the sky—moreover that moon yonder; that danced and glittered at her glory. How proud she must be, that moon. I’d call her Luna.
Before this I must add, that though I find myself now quite neurotic, I have forgotten about her that night. Hmm. Is it possible? I wonder. Yet must I own also this habit of denying myself something: a feeling, a thing. I wished to deny myself some tears, for I loathe the cause of it. Still did they fall—but behold the stream! That thing that glimmers. And what could I possibly do but drown those tears forever? So, did I submerge. The water encompassed me, rushed on all sides, from down under…and I sank deeper… deeper… and deeper till I could hold my breath no longer. Hence, I rushed myself, up gasping for air. The wind blew cold, the night whimsical and balmy. Silhouettes of those trees were made thicker and darker than the night sky.
But did they drown, my tears? No.
“Why do you cry?” Whispered so suddenly a voice I had never once heard before.
I turned, drowning my surprise awhile; for there appeared before me a face—that of a woman’s I have never seen once. Her eyes, under such a night, were gentle; the hue of which rendered me doubtful between black and the darkest of brown. For surely, they were neither gray, nor green, nor blue. She had long, or at least below-the-shoulder-length of raven hair that highly contrasted her complexion made luminous by the silver moon. Her face was neither small, nor big; but agreed artfully to the rest of her features. Her lips I need not say, neither thick nor thin; but has some sort of character to it I cannot perceive. But so were her eyes that by then assumed an expression of mirth. Why?
Here I must own I staggered in response. Nonetheless, I replied in the negative and asked in turn how she could say so? Fair lady that she was, and woman that I am, I could not cease gazing upon her whilst ever gently moving ashore. Only, she beheld me as I beheld her. Gently, she squeezed my hands and said, “Even a drop of tear can be so easily distinguished amidst an ocean, dear.”
“Hence?” I dared not understand, for then I remained fixed on my spot, afloat and in mute admiration of her eyes which were so captivating.
“Who are you?” I ventured to ask.
“A truce, dear. I’ll tell you my name if you tell me why you’re sad.”
“Hmm. Never mind, for I am not sad. Nor did I cry.”
“You deny it then.” She smiled. “But not only that, you deny me the pleasure to converse with you freely. You deny something of yourself.”
To this I could not help but laugh a bit, for surely, she could talk and make me listen even if I won’t—knowing there was but she and I alone. Yet, as I laughed I found myself in complete darkness. There no longer was the sky, nor the trees, nor the feeling of being encompassed by the stream. There though, the utter knowledge of rain, its presence made manifest by the roof and panes…