The question is how to be happy for you. I dream in colour, always and in language and emotion. You hear in colour. I see in emotion. The grey- it’s what I have been trained to do. I didn’t teach myself so much as I was always this way. Every other self-made artist wants to claim the sensitive childhood. I? I was happy. My childhood was a bubble of happiness. I perceived embarrassment at attention. Yet I wanted it. I loved people smiling at me.
And then came black clouds and the bubble burst and I was swimming, yes I was, but not negative splitting but letting myself cry; after all, I was in an ocean I was in so what difference did it make?
I found solace in books and music. And lengthy journaling- yes, my literary career was kickstarted by the Diary not of a wimpy kid, but of an overweight, overemotional preteen. Yes. By then I was sensitive all right. Before I was sensitive to love. And loss. Now it was everything else.
So you stand so strong and so tall, so self-aware. You have organized your thoughts and your truths and deliver genuinity so effortlessly. So beautifully.
And once again, I have no right to feel proud. I have done nothing, made no impact or helped in any way but to add to the pleasant people you’ve met. We have not talked deep, or maybe we have but I’ve forgotten. Brief it would have been. Was there ever time?
So this is the answer: admit the bitterness, the jealousy and the fact that I loved what was not mine to love. It was harmful to nobody but myself and was it really harm? I have nothing of yours except those handful of moments, sweet though they were. And the delight of knowing I saw you before anyone else but whom you already had (and whom really count).
So I am sorry I’ve been so bitter and jealous; both have been in my nature without ill-intention- maybe one day you’ll be in the movies and I’ll tell my grandkids- I know that person. I used to be in love with him. I don’t know how to capture all that I felt, maybe even still feel- but it won’t matter and it doesn’t.
That’s only something I can understand. The more I try to explain it, the stupider and sillier I sound because you were never mine or available to be mine, from the get go.
But I am sorry. My instincts tell me both of you probably know. Or wonder. I’m not stupid, I’m so subtly obvious. So the silence and non-replies are called for.
But I will always remember that moment and the ones before and after as aplenty of heightened emotion and spiritual connection. Okay?