A novel yet to be written
You often write of how the ******* reminds you of me. I don't need anything to remind me of you. I am talking to you in my head and in my heart constantly. You are always there wherever I go. You're the only audience I care about. I've told you all this before.
I have witnessed the most beautiful sunsets, from the World Trade Centre, the Millennium Hilton Hotel across from it, the plane, and now my hotel in the town where you live. The full moon is in view and I can't help but think of you. Where are you? Will I see you this time? How will I see you?
Would it make any difference if I were to see you face to face or if I were to leave you in my mind --- a figment of my imagination, a promise of what could have been if only you were not afraid to let go and believe.
A drunken stupor am I, not from you but from the martini's I've indulged in tonight to free myself from the thoughts of you.
Back and forth in my mind. Should I make contact or not. If I do, how should I? Give advance notice? Just show up? What if you're not there? If you're there, should I attempt to see you? What would I accomplish if I did?
Sometimes I confuse writing to you with writing to my diary. My diary is not moody and later I can read it again. When I write to you, it's like sending a signal to outer space. I may not even get an echo back.
One of the things I like to do is to close my eyes and think of you. I imagine you are with me, like that night at the *******. Your hands touch me. I can feel your presence. I can feel the heat of your body. You caress me from top to toe. I can see you now --- your sad eyes --- no smile --- just a blank stare at me --- through me.
I know you from the inside first, unlike the way I know others. I don't know how you are when you interact with others. I only know the way you are with me and the way you interact with me. In this sense, I wonder if I know you at all.
22 August 2004 Sunday