To My Dearest,
Writing to you seems to be an addiction of mine but sometimes words fail me.
They fall silent on paper amidst the cacophony of sound.
There was a time when longing meant belonging. Hence the necessity of writing and reaching out to you. Now you are quite near and the words have become far.
No matter how hard I try, my words don’t reach you anymore. The doorway towards it is cluttered by unforeseen blemishes.
The sorrows which belonged to me have rekindled in someone else. They are no longer mine. Neither have you remained nor your troubles.
Perhaps this is the nature of things to be empty in lieu of your words. When words fail you have silence but when silence fail there remains nothing. Not even the voice within.
The cluttered thoughts give away to a cluttered handwriting. The hands tremble as you write making the reading impossible and the reaching untenable.
Yet, what is to come, will come to you at the necessary moment. The given resonance makes sound only in that moment. I hope you will be ready for that striving – ready when that moment comes. Scarcely, still, it will come your way taking you to unforeseen heights of success. Where you will redeem yourself for the sake of the you in you and others.
Your beloved will be by your side – the family you belong and the mothers that dwell in you. In those hours don’t run for cover, accept the strings of irony. For your moment has come like all others before you.
Until then live to tell that tale to the cuckoo singing in your balcony. It is searching for the spring in this summer. The spring only you can give. As it is the spring only you have.