I’ve been writing you many letters, none of them has reached your hands, and I would never give them to you. I would not give them to you, I would never let you read them. You do not deserve to read what I wrote for you.
I’ve written many hundred pages long letters, all of them talking about you. The way you move, the way you look at the world, I’ve put many small details which you yourself would miss into my letters. But in the end these are just what I perceive you to be. Maybe what I wrote wasn’t even you, but the “you” that I could feel.
You see, I am not obsessed about you. Not even the slightest. But you have this ability, one which you aren’t aware of, to pull me into fixation. You constantly draw me closer, you force me to examine you from head to toe, you force me to understand you inside and out; you possess a power to control me, one which I myself do not possess.
I am indeed aware of your flaws, but they’re not that interesting to write about. Look at yourself in the mirror, and instantly you could find what you lack of. Try battling your wits with someone else, and they would pinpoint exactly what’s wrong in your way of thinking. But these aren’t interesting, there is nothing interesting about your flaws. Flaws are facts that you need to accept, you can’t deny flaws once they’re established. But writing about you minus all of those flaws is another thing, it’s something that not everyone could see, it’s something that needs a degree of attention to realize, it’s not something that easy to spot; I behold your beauty, that’s why I could write endlessly about you.
You’re really something else, and you don’t realize that. My job here is to make you realize all the things you are, and not to make you think of the things you are not. I’ll leave that job for you, or for anyone that would oblige to take on that duty, but it wouldn’t be me. Ever.
I am naive, I realize that. I only think of you as how I perceive you, and not as everyone else does. It’s subjective, and anyone with common sense could spot the flaw in my logic by adhering to this subjective view, by hearing me repeat these words: you are flawless to me. If I was a scientist I wouldn’t be a very good one. Luckily, I am not a scientist, nor am I a philosopher who could convey their concepts systematically, I am just me. I am just in love.
I am in love with the thought of you.