This, what you read, is like a message in a bottle, as idealistic as it is useless. While I write, I still hope, like Ariadna, that the same Teseo that abandoned me in this shore of this empty and heated beach, will ever change come to rescue me from this hell.
This, what I write, flows out of my fingers as they interpret my deepest feelings, while the white of my notebook seems to mourn with every black I imprint on them. Everything tells me about you, the lonely parking, the cold linen, the wet floor, the empty sockets, the first thought of the morning, the walks back home and the hollowness of my summer calendar. They all torture me freely, impassively. They all speak out loud through an obstinate cacophony of sorrow, tons of stone laid down over my chest.
When I see myself in a mirror, I look over my shoulder as if you were on my side. When I go to bed, I pretend that I never slept with you under these sheets. Where I see numbers, I see questions. Where I see laughs, I see lost encounters. When somebody asks about you, I still have to make up my mind and admit my place. When I am alone, I am still with you; and when I am close to you, I wonder how I can hear you from that far.
It seems now that you have only been a tangent to the line of my life; I believed you were a parallel. I will never manage to understand these mathematics, for I have loved you through senses, assertions, future laughs and past fears, from strong shoulders and sincere feet. I have always rejected to love you from elsewhere rather than my guts, where my most determined, naïve, proud, and sincere truth is kept. I have preferred to open for you the windows of the visible and the invisible; to book the rest of my diary long-lasting stories of beauties.
I blame that rational fear for its perverse plan to restore us to our initial and most severe condemn, that of the birth: the solitude. I also blame the gadgets of time, the months, the passing clouds, the kilometre and the waving hands. I blame the tables without candles, the unfinished sketches, and my room for not being in disarray. I blame the unconvincingness of the blank page and my soundless tears…
But above all, I blame you. I blame you for your easy smile, for your deep respect, your curiosity, for your diligence. I blame your availability and your cares, and all the corners of your body. I blame how you catch the sun, how you look when its cold. I blame the good moments that we had, and the lack of bad ones. I blame you for being there, with me, those few months. But above all I blame you for your innocence.
This might be the last letter of this kind that ever reaches you. Despite all, I wish you good luck in finding your way through the dark forests, through the cold winters. I wish you ever achieved a half-dream or a pseudo-‘I love you’, for I doubt that anybody can offer you a full deal of the magnitude I have given you.
But please do not worry for my future. I have arranged my tears into my light luggage, and my memories in my backpack. I have smelt for last time, eyes closed, nose to the sky, the fragrance of that dreamed life with you; and have shelved the book with the coordinates of our lost paradise. I am ready to go, ready to leave towards a new adventure out of this lonely island. In my right hand I hold a telescope with determination, to see what is to come. In my trembling left hand, I hold with difficulties all my feelings for you, the irrefutable proof of what I have lived: the ultimate proof that I can love again.
27th May-10th June 2013
