I am not entirely sure why I am writing this here when I have my own perfectly good corner of the universe in which to pour my misguided ramblings. Perhaps it is the very nature of today that makes me want to hide. Perhaps it is the nature of me that makes today seem so large and daunting, and incurable by even my most favorite things. (rooibos tea with candles lit.) In any case, I wandered here, in these last fragrant moments before sleep, and suddenly it seemed like a good idea.
Perhaps it is you, dear inventor.
Not that normal communication is in any way discouraged. We just seem to avoid it. For the sake of distinction? For the sake of simplicity? For some grand and secret reason hidden even from ourselves? (I would like to think so, if only because it is more romantic.) I wonder if we will ever meet again it a way that permits looking into each other's eyes. Not to sound fatalistic, but I doubt it strongly. And will this be enough? These whispers from shadows. Mere flirtations with substance. Is it the mystery that withholds traditional relationship? Do I like you better knowing only what you encrypt in language and send to me across invisible spiderwebs? Would I love you with flesh on? Dressed in mortality and bad days and bad breath and eye contact and words wrapped in a voice that yawns in the wee hours of the morning. Would I love you as a person instead of a concept?
Would you love me?
Can we? Are we ever able? Or do the broken pieces of our souls obliterate even the possibility? Perhaps, dear inventor, that is why I write this here instead of in an email with my name attached to it, or a phone call with my voice to own it. Perhaps, in the end, it all comes back to why I wrapped myself in blankets tonight. I wrapped myself in my home and my candles and my music, and forgot that anywhere else existed.
Because it is safer.