Artwork: Antonia Avramova
The feeling that I have something yet to give to the world is real, almost tangible. It drives me to write. When my physical growth comes to a grinding, screeching halt, I see the gift that was bestowed upon me looming ever brighter – words are made stronger by the pain, and the loss of faith, its resurgence, the rejuvenation, the triumph.
I set out with the desire to write in a way most powerful. When they read my words – I wished – I want them to hear Beethoven. No easy task and, indeed, no small ambition. And how oft must my soul twist and bend to achieve it, if it is even possible?
You said, at a time when I rested easy, that even in that state – having forgotten myself and my strange pursuits, that there is a shade of drama in my eyes. Indeed, turmoil knows me well, the exhaustion, the pain, the thickening, the mutating being. But in you I found a new source of power – one whose mysterious flavors had always eluded me. It had not occurred to me until now that strength can be hatched from beauty, that they may resonate so convincingly, such as they do in your face. I know that your outer body is a mere echo of the music that shapes you. I long to hear that melody, and that longing fills me with strange anticipation, as if expecting an event foretold, a voice coming from far away, and yet so crystal clear, so near to my ear, and my soul. I wish to know the well from which you draw your energies, I wish to see myself in its silent water, I wish to know the person that my gaze will find in the vibrant reflection.
If my words do not make sense, that is because I seldom understand them myself. I do not understand myself, but, at the very least, I know that I do not misunderstand you. The writing that seeks to explain you is a function of your self, muddled by my subjective understanding. You cannot be misunderstood. Your beauty is unmistakable. Anyone born with a human heart can instinctively recognize it, although mouths will stutter trying to describe it.
I wish to know you, but that would mean to suck the well dry. I wish to contemplate with my eyes drawn to your reflection like moths to flame, until I burn, and my vision decays. But I am old, old enough to know how to extend the pleasures of seeking, instead of squandering them in a single moment – I will write.
And my words will become a testament to what I have seen, although it cannot be done justice. Not with the limited spectrum of the human tongue. Without you, all of this would not be possible. What I cast your way you catch, and you return gracefully.
If I had eyes to see and ears to hear, all of this would be self-evident to me. I would not have needed to discover it through self-reflection. But, nevertheless, I have come to the same conclusion.
We resound in perfect harmony.