Shall we reinvent love?

Beloved Reader,

while you are reading this letter, I will be writing other letters. The reason why this possibly belated letter may be so late is that I had a faith that you would, somehow, find me on your own. However, I have just found out that in order to be found one has to first search. Even though unraveling myself may not mean that you will easily find me, at least there is now a chance for this relationship.

They say that everything could be read on the face. I wonder if we all have been sentenced to one face for hundreds of years? I wish I had looked at my face more carefully. Until now, I haven’t stood in front of a mirror and looked at myself, but instead I have waited for you to show up and reflect myself to me through yourself.

I am writing these lines to you on in the attic of an old house, on an inclined table of an architect right in front of an inclined window in a roof. While writing, I am not looking at my fingers, but at the screen. While not looking at the screen I am watching out through the window that starts where the screen ends. During the days, I see the sky through the glass. It is sometimes all white, sometimes all blue, sometimes blue and white all together, sometimes grey, and sometimes the color of earth. During the evenings, I don’t see anything but my reflection in the same glass. I mostly write when it rains at night. Somewhere a radio is on, and the words, the sounds, and the spaces I hear from the songs stir my soul. Sometimes something weird happens: my consciousness gets stuck. I want all I imagine, all I cannot imagine, all I will be able to imagine and all I won’t be able to imagine to mix with your imaginings in these letters and spaces that I hold in my hands, absurdly, for both of us.

I’ve already officially shared this love within my thesis. The committee members said that they couldn’t find the things I had written in the subject of my research, but they underlined that I had constructed my own text well, and that the thesis should be published and find its own readers in life. To that end, I contacted some editors, but there was no real response. I wonder if there is another way for you to read me, unofficially. For some reason, you are crrently interested in yourself more than anything. Not even in yourself, but in your image. You always look at your photos, always like things, comment on them, share them, always add or remove people from your life. If you somehow encounter this letter, know that you are always in my thoughts. In every line and word that I write, even in the spaces within writing, and the truth is that you are not written on my face but living in my consciousness. What has been typed by my fingertips is a possible life for us.

Another hundred year of solitude would not be easy to hold. If you understand me here and now, I say to myself, how would we unfold in a hundred years? Just imagine. Aren’t we people of the same wor-l-d after all? Here is a secret: to understand means to enjoy in this love. Even if they are not synonyms, they are homonyms. Just like the sounds we make when we enjoy and we understand.

Hope we reunite someday somewhere.

Beloved Author,

_______