It has been a while since our last correspondence. I address you as Moriaty to conceal your real identity just so my friends won’t be on my back and neck immediately after am done writing this. More so, yours won’t be visiting your inbox to ask if we are back together or we broke up again or what is happening between us in the event they read this before you. Not that am afraid or ashamed to tell the world who you are, I just don’t want to put you in a bad position; correction, compromised position. Some people might misinterpret that bad position. Also, I no longer have a way to reach you directly given the circumstances and how things turned out last time. I may or may have not deleted your number knowingly and unknowingly.
Nonetheless, I know you’ll know it is you that am addressing after you read this. You always knew, always know, will always know. It is perhaps the reason am writing, because I know you’ll understand regardless of where or how you are and that deep down you’ll know it’s the truth.
However, as I have come to learn about the world and its people, the truth doesn’t matter, not anymore. The only thing that matters is the appearance of truth. I find that the truth has become so elusive and often imaginary. But in the end its all we are left with, is it not? What is real, what you can taste and touch and feel and love. The words that pass between us as we look each other in the eyes are all we have to hold on to. Whatever else we say when not looking directly into each other’s eyes is left to interpretation. A form in which I find most of what is meant not said and most of what is said not meant. Perhaps it’s our fault or not that the world is the way it is. But I don’t suppose you know anything about that. Nature has its mysteries even to those who seem to know and understand everything. Perhaps you are the only truth left in a world that keeps lying. My truth.
Often I wonder as I wander alone in the shadows of the valleys of loneliness whether we can go back. Go back to the beginning and start afresh. Go back to our garden of Eden and put that fruit back on that tree. But the more I think of it the more I realize it’s a delusion, a futile edge against the existential terror that is my own singularity. But can we be blamed for being careful? For protecting our hearts against the malice that has taken reigns in the hearts of men and women alike?
I am nothing special, of this I am sure. I am a common man with common thoughts and I’ve led a common life. There are no monuments dedicated to me and my name will soon be forgotten, but I can proudly proclaim now that I’ve loved another with all my heart and soul, and to me, this has always been enough. However, I now realize that it might be hypocritical on my part to proclaim this to the world and not have told you enough times when I had the chance and when it mattered the most. But we all have our own shortcomings, don’t we? We are not perfect and however hard we try to be, there will always be skeletons in our closets. A ghost or ghosts from our pasts that we cannot quite shake off. It is a shame. Shame that the most intelligent being on the planet still struggles with issues that famous philosophers claim not to be new under the sun; and yet our greatest shame is also our greatest solace. Paradoxical, is it not? That nothing you struggle with is new and that being short of something does not make us any less human.
I now wander, lost in oblivion searching the world for something I cannot quite explain. But now it’s different. I have absolutely no pleasure in the stimulants in which I used to so madly indulge in. It has not been in the pursuit of pleasure that I have periled life and reputation and reason but rather a desperate attempt to escape from torturing memories, from a sense of intolerable loneliness and a dread of some strange impending doom.
Now all I do is sit at home admiring the sunset, watching the cerulean sky, pale and often cloudless; tinged slightly with copper where the great dome of the universe touches the earth’s rim about fifty miles away. Amidst these pastel contrasting colors, the grey-green bushes and the dark umbrella thorns or the pale-yellow bark of the fever tree spatter the landscape. To me, you are like the plains that lie before me where at every turn of the road new vistas challenge the eyes. Or a chain of lakes shining in the sun lying one after another like silver plates, and the valleys seem to pour out beyond the road; each with its rounded ramparts of low hills and far-away beckoning mountain ranges. Too far out of my reach that I have resigned to fate to take me wherever it deems appropriate, but in the hope that it will eventually lead me back to you.