black body radiator

Dear K-

You are not the first to have fallen in love with me over letters. I appear so much better on paper, it seems.

I know you don’t want me- you want the idea of me. And what a lovely idea I may appear, with all these frothy words at my lips floating away like sweet, opalescent soap bubbles into a still summer’s afternoon. You confess as Saint Augustine- not in love, but in love with the idea of love. I cannot blame you. Have I not found myself in a similar predicament before, loving the images I create in the cinema of my mind rather than fully recognizing the original model for what it is, for what it was…How could I ever live up to such fanciful whims?

I laugh when I’m nervous. I don’t sing well on command. I have a fear of flying, elevators, heights, but not necessarily in that order. Large crowds make me nervous. The idea of a picnic always seems so much better than the reality- eating peanut butter and jelly sandwiches on a soggy lawn while trying to keep the wind from blowing my hair into my mouth while I take bites, all while fighting off the insects. I’m allergic to a laundry list of usually enjoyable ingredients. My curves are mostly bones. My hands and feet are always ice at night. I toss and turn and occasionally have insomnia. I can’t dance. My voice falters and my nerve pitters out on arguments, even if small. My heart doesn’t let me run like I used to. I am sarcastic, cynical, and frequently will not admit to my motives. I don’t like to discuss plans. I break promises and never commit. I am no perfect soul.

When you say it as you do, it all sounds lovely. But that’s a story book- and you can feel free to write me in however you see fit. I can be your heroine or I can be the shadow that falls upon the dust in the corner.

As I write this I am distracted by the frailty of life. I saw a man crack open the back of his skull outside the café this weekend. I had been there for several hours, quietly drinking my poison and studying proposed mechanisms of autoimmunity. I had noted him, but no more than I would note any other passing customer. I didn’t know that I would see his blood. I didn’t know that I’d see him lying prone upon the pavement, twitching as a scarlet puddle formed a halo beneath his head.

I watched as they rolled him onto a stretcher and they asked if I knew anything about him. Just a slow, solemn shake of the head-no words, just the universal, nonverbal sigh of “I don’t know”. It has been hard to concentrate on my work. All I could think as he shivered on the ground was “I wonder if he has incurred any macular vision loss from the blow to his occipital lobe. I wonder how long it will take before the platelets and fibrin form a clot. I wonder if woven bone will start to form to heal the fractures in his skull.”

I am not who you write about. I am a terrible person who wishes I could be all the things you say.
-K