Before I write to you, I always read over all or some back ones – from either you or myself, and in the very precise last, I found several words worth a response but will limit myself to these;
“When I read what you write about, and think of you, I feel like you have changed her from human to this almost perfect being which does not exist”, and for the second time, you ask that, “expectations should be lowered.”
Yes, my dear, I do lose myself when I think of you so much. What would life have without you in it? The sun would drop from my heavens. I see only by you. You are more to me than my poor brain could have devised.
When you say you feel like I have changed you from a human to an almost perfect being which does not exist: I believe you, because I have invented you. You are something new to me since I saw you first. I wish I had the opportunity to illustrate what you mean to me. You, are my kind of perfect.
When I look through your photos, and think of you, I never question whether what I think would be true or false in the eyes of others. All that concerns me seems to go on a different plane where evidence has no meaning or existence, where nobody exists or means anything, but only we two alone, engaged in bringing about for ourselves the still greater solititude of two into one.
Oh, beloved, what a company that will be! I will take you in my arms, fasten you to my heart, breathe on you, deny you either breath or the light of day, and you will be mine equally to live or die at my word. You will shut your beautiful eyes to feel my kisses falling on you like rain, or still more like sunshine.
Oh, how wonderful we’d seem! At least that is now we do in my dreams – dreams in which you come to me. But shan’t a boy dream?
So, you can imagine my emptiness, my disappointment at my failure to enable my imaginations meet reality when I was in the kasozi ke’mpala. How strangely much could those seven hills keep our fates apart! It seemed uncharacteristic for this small world where meetings are made possible by simple things like texts and calls.
I heard your angelic voice but I want to sit and listen to your few words. I heard your cascading giggle but I want to laugh with you.
Thankfully, I am not on to put blame on anybody. Perhaps “cancelling” is your inconsistency: I am aware women are sure to be inconsistent somewhere: it is their birthright.
And, in the wise words of my father, “a missed opportunity is not an abomination. It is fate. Appreciate it and be encouraged that God is using it to prepare you for better ones.”
His words, on an entirely different topic, make me feel rather quite foolish. I will keep waiting and being the ever hopeful person that I am for a better opportunity and take back these words which I had noted somewhere;
We are like roses that have never bothered to
bloom when we should have bloomed and
it is as if
the sun has become tired with waiting.
Indeed, I should not be thinking about changing the pace – yet. Hearts were never meant to race.
And, unbeknownst to ladies, it is statements like “lower your expectations” and “do not endear me” that enhance our interest in them. Nevertheless, for you I will lower. Only then will I be pleasantly surprised when I open these cupboards of vision and set eyes on things not yet intended to be looked at, so that there will be no confusion of tongues in this tower we are building whose top is to reach heaven.
B, I am headed to my first love, Rwanyanshando, where I will seclude myself with the gurus that are the seventy year olds and some youngsters as well who are helping me with my book which I have, to let you know, decided to dedicate to you.
As I will be engaged for about two weeks before I return to N, I may not write you in such detail. My heart will go to you through texts and calls like a tree in the wind, and all my thoughts will be the loose leaves that will fly after you when I have to remain somewhere so far behind.
My dear, till we meet to share our experiences, I will keep running to my mobile to discover more beauties in you. And also, to use food as an allegory, I will always be overwhelmed by tasty thoughts of you.
More love than I can name
Ever, dearest, your own,