A Love Letter To The Boy I Have Yet To Meet

Sometimes such a yearning overtakes me for an understanding soul, in the flesh and by my side, that I feel as if I might split apart from the agony.

In truth, no matter how much I comfort myself with writing and books, I am lonely, yet I do not crave the company of just any person; instead, I yearn for someone who I do not know yet, who exists, somewhere, out in that world. A young man, reserved and sensitive, quirky and strange, and if the two of us were to meet umbrellas would start waddling upside down along the pavement to catch the rain.

One of my most favourite movies in the world is Amelie, a story of an introverted, inhibited young woman and her journey towards finding love. It is simply the most wonderful movie, marvelously quirky and just plain lovely, and the protagonist is someone who I can relate to utterly. Luckily for her, in the end, she does find love, though there are many tears and hardships along the way. The movie itself is a phantasmagoria of delightful creativity and music that flows like the bumpy back of an elegant caterpillar.

As for myself, well, I do not know if I will ever meet someone strange and quirky enough to see beyond my barriers into the fragilely excited core of me, and perhaps they live on the other side of the globe and our paths will never cross. But the possibility of being with someone like that, who understands, who feels keenly and suffers, beckons agonizingly, a glint of gold in the darkness just out of reach.

Together, the two of us, I am sure, would act like children, sitting side-by-side in the corner of the library amid piles of books, looking up from our novels now and then to smile at each other. Dancing together in the park, and conjuring up all sorts of quirky theories regarding the flowers and the trees; you know the trees have eyes and noses, don’t you, in their knotty bark? They see us, the leaves rustling quiet secrets. If we check every flower, perhaps we shall find a fairy nestled on the pollen centre of one of them. Oh, do let us climb this tree; it looks exactly like The Magic Faraway Tree in the books by Enid Blyton; perhaps, just a few branches up, live Silky and Moon Face, and at the very top a delightful world for us to explore.

We could lie side-by-side in bed, facing each other, staring into each other’s eyes and say “Hello. You’re Conscious.” “Hello. I know.” “Look at us, the universe staring at itself, a series of mirrors looking into mirrors.” “I know.” And then we would smile. At night we could lie down on the grass beneath the stars and revel in the poetry of the universe, or not do anything at all except be and exist, two organisms in the company of one another, for a little while.

And all the marvelous shades of the soul, of quiet poetry and yearning, the beauty of a discarded shoe left on the sidewalk, a crumbling and ruined house, we would share with one another, two children laughing in sheer wonder at the bittersweet beauty of being alive.

Of course, we would live in a cottage somewhere, with myriad cats and an immense library, spend our days creating art and watching things, stuffing our eyes with wonder, watching everything and then turning to the other and smiling and kissing and hugging and loving and living and dreaming, forever and ever. Nothing would go unnoticed; not the pleasure of a crackling fireplace by an armchair, or two humans in love laughing with each other, or a single glint of sunlight between two interlocking branches weaving in the wind.

Do you exist, somewhere, out there?

I hope you do.

I will tell myself I am not waiting for you, as one, according to society, does not need other people to feel complete, and must work on own self-esteem and happiness, but I miss you, dearly, have missed you all my life. I love you, even without meeting you.

I believe you are out there, and yearning for me too.

If we do not end up meeting (and I try not to be too pessimistic, but life has disappointed so often that I do not know what to believe in or hope for sometimes except making the best use of the present moment) in this life, I will be satisfied with my books and writing, the latter of which might touch another kindred spirit across the reaches of time and space.

I love you. I will love you until the day I die, even if you never materialize, even if I am simply a lonely, deluded, silly girl. I love you, because I love life, because I love love, because I love existing and feeling, and I would so want someone to share it all with. I miss you. I do.

Say you miss me too.


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