It is quite a
charming weather when I wake up. I examine the blue sky in a chilly morning of
dull May with moderate expectation of a bright wonderful day. It is such a
perfect moment to start another twenty-four hour journey on earth. Without
unnecessary noise, and also at the absence of any disagreeable festivity, I
feel indescribably full and complete. Although there is actually nothing
particular which I would love to do to enjoy this lovely state of nature, I cannot
help permitting this sudden feeling of joy and eagerness to flush through my
whole body. Perhaps, it is the serenity and the tranquility that charms me the
most. Indeed, in such circumstance that I find the sanctity of life
itself. Or, is it my soul that long has
been waiting for peacefulness?
I am completely aware that I have treated my
soul like a spoilt girl, feed it with a sweet delusion of love and a fake happiness
as it shall never be shared but repressed. Very still, I cannot stop trying to
get comfort from those wonderful imaginations. I keep listening to that whisper
of splendid future. The pleasure I get from that delusion is like heroin. Even after
I get myself disengage, the comfort remains. It is nothing close to sober, only
a desire to taste more and lore.
Oh how I
should find such a cure for my ill soul! I have witnessed how unsteady and
uncertain my own heart for so long. For your sacred soul’s sake, indeed call me
a melancholy, but I should never translate mine that. I am passionate, earnest
and sincere. If my existence is to embrace both the delight and severity of
loving, I would possess them with full consciousness. My spirit, though, does degenerate for the limit of my comprehension of my own faith.
An ill soul I
admit! And it is that very existence which has been the origin of all the
disease- uncertainty. What a wicked creature it is! It consumes your security,
harms the ease, tarnishes the hope, and yet even with your full acknowledgement
of what is happening, you just cannot help wandering around. It is a battle
within you which you can barely conquer.
I am uncertain,
beautiful young man. Loving you is either a delusion or madness, either a hope
or an obsession. It exhausts me to an extent in which I see no more recovery. And
I fancy you to share the sufferings for which I demand your whole capacity to
accept me. Yes, I may require too much, but should not love be reciprocal? Should
not it be the one that has an inescapable power over two different souls and
unite them with affections for each other? Your intelligence, ingenuity, and sensibility
should be enough to help you notice. Yet, you are to remain indifferent.
I have long
demanded you as you are. My soul is delighted at merely the thought of you. Very
often, my darling, I think it is deceitful. As all the efforts I have put into still
get me nowhere. Now my sanity is severely attacked, my confinement and solitude
are cracked, that I cannot possibly store any charm of being exist outside your
world any longer. I require your attachment and protection. But I am to you remain
an outsider. And the idea breaks my heart into pieces.
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