Every word I write comes from you. As I write them down they are claimed by the Present and are quickly handed down to the Past. You are the fearsome elusive, the unpredictable unknown, the Muse of dreamers like yours truly.
I honestly don’t know why I feel the urge to write to you. These past few weeks I have been nervous by the very thought of you, as new lovers are after transitioning from a long friendship. I might even mistake these emotions as falling, headfirst, in love.
You take away my appetite, my sleep, my social energy. My usually short attention span has been reduced to an unlit match. The vein above by right brow has protruded and taken to throb at its own command. There’s this sinking feeling in my stomach, the exact same thing on my first week alone in New York City. I call it scared shitless.
Nobody knows what tricks you have up your sleeves. You are a Pearl Jam concert set list, a jazz piece, a flip top response, a streak of lightning. One moment you call me to Holly Golightly’s city, the next you call to take my Mama away. You send me to prepare for career and send me to the hospital in the same season. (I am trying not to blame you for what the Past already owns.)
I never know where I stand with you. I guess nobody ever does, and the great secret of life is that we never really know until we receive the cards with which we are dealt. And who we are is how we respond to them.
So what now? What about me, a girl who always needs a second try? What do you hold in store for someone who tries not to expect anything from you? Where will you lead my little flame of existence?
Thank you for eventually responding.