I am embarrassed of myself. I can almost hear your protest at that.

Much of how I have survived has been mimicry. I think it's the root of my incongruence, the widening of the gap between my authentic self and the world always searching and yearning for intimacy.

I do understand. There is more that I don't understand than my curiosity can keep up with. But it is important for me to have said: I understand this.

I can get sentimental, and it's a trait that often turns people off if I go too far, so I will try to reel it in.

I really crossed a line and I am so sorry for that.

I am so grateful for you, and the work you do, and how you have shown me perspective.

I know it's your job, but fuck that, you are a human too. It's not easy work that you do, and you do it with such grace.

This letter will remain unsent, but not unwritten.

Perhaps there is an analytical answer to this. I don't really care if there is, because answers often destroy the small things I hold dear, the places where I don't dare to discover the truth, but instead choose to accept and nurture it.

Sounds a bit like faith. But so be it.

I recall, vaguely, but with enough prominence to leave me with no doubt, that I've met you in my dreams.

Daydreams, wandering thoughts, and that loathsome word: hope. But,

I have seen you. Not in some weird, creepy way. Just… it's really hard to explain, it's even harder to experience.

I read a book when I was, I don't know, say 14 or 15 years old. You were in there.

On a rowboat looking on quizzically, Not quite at me, I was reading, see But through me

I saw you when I first heard Uriah Heep's Lady in Black.

I knew you existed in between the spaces of cruelty and anger that I witnessed.

The starvation of people's hearts when they don't know what they want, and take it out on each other... but wear wedding dresses and suits and make oaths.

I forgot about you, because so many years passed and I had no tolerance for dreams.

And then I met you.

And it breaks my fucking heart.

J