Reading, Writing, and a Love Letter

Reading: Is there anything that that quote left unsaid? This is why I love reading.

Writing: All writers read. How amazing it would be if I could write something that would make my reader feel the things it described. It would be the ultimate satisfaction.

A Love Letter: Because of the aforementioned, the book I'm currently reading crossed my mind. The love letter below, I feel, is one I could have written myself. Or anyone, really. Who doesn't fall in love that way? The writer took the words from my mind. To find a writer like that is kismet. But destiny has a funny way of going about its business. I would never have bought that book if Fully Booked didn't hold a sale. I almost didn't buy it because of its title. And because it cost 50 pesos. But I said, what the heck. It's only 50 pesos, you miser. And I NEEDED to read a book. 

This love letter. This is me, in love.

Dear Goat,

How does one fall in love? Do you trip? Do you stumble, lose your balance and drop to the sidewalk, graze your knee, graze your heart? Do you crash to the stony ground? Is there a precipice, from which you float, over the edge, forever?

I know I’m in love when I see, I know when I long to see you. Not a muscle has moved. Leaves hang unruffled by any breeze. The air is still. I have fallen in love without taking a step. When did this happen? I haven’t even blinked.

I’m on fire. Is that too banal for you? It’s not, you know. You’ll see. It’s what happens. It’s what matters. I’m on fire.

I no longer eat. I forget to eat. Food looks silly to me, irrelevant. If I even notice it. But I notice nothing. My thoughts are full and raging, a house full of brothers, related by blood, feuding blood feuds: I’m in love ——Typically stupid choice —— I am, though, I’m racked by love as if love were pain —— Go ahead. Fuck up your life. It’s all wrong and you know it. Wake up. Face it. —— There’s only one face, it’s all I see, awake or asleep.

I threw the book out the window last night. I tried to forget. You are all wrong for me, I know, but I no longer care for my thoughts unless they’re thoughts of you. When I’m close to you, I feel you hair brush my cheek when it does not. I look away from you, sometimes. Then I look back.

When I tie my shoes, when I peel an orange, when I drive my car, when I lie each night without you, I remain,

As ever,

Ram

— The Love Letter, by Cathleen Schine.