wither

I

It wasn't strange to see that the greatness of all legends had only been shown to the world after their time, Van Gogh's art, Mendel's scientific breakthrough, the world had left them discarded until they weren't around to see the peak of their success. I found quite the comfort in that thought as I sat before my typewriter, ready to throw yet another letter or book to the graveyard of my memory. Maybe someday, it'll be of significance.

I had conjured an idea the night before, a letter, comparing her to the moon that lingers outside every window I look through, how she lingers to my thoughts. When I'm within the solitude of my room, faced only by the old typewriter, all hesitation leaves through my fingertips as I proceed to write, keeping only the distant image of her in my mind.
The tea at my side had gone cold, lost all flavour after sitting neglected for an hour at the very least. The arms of the clock on the wall were slow, tired and weary, as were I, for despite the comfort of the the steady life, the calm waves, it was nonetheless exhausting to walk in a never ending circle of daily life, and yet still, I wasn't planning on changing.

I folded the paper a few times, the final touch. I left no signature or any mark that would lead to me, like I usually tried to do with every letter I sent to her. Nothing on that paper traced these thoughts back to me, other than the scent of the atmosphere around me, but I doubt it was ever of importance to her, as it was never of importance to me.

Is it love? I tend to ask myself every time my eyes fall on the letters I write, and I always tend to feel a burn in my stomach at the sight, something similar to that of embarrassment. In a way, it had always felt ridiculous to me, writing letters to someone, from no one, with no expected aim. If this was love, it is the kind to keep stashed in the back shelves of one's mind, for acting upon one's feelings is like going down a roller coaster with no seatbelt on, one can only rely on hands to stay in position, especially when it comes to love. This was always meant to be kept in a frame of a painting, and observed from a distance.

Her and I had met in a sort of a rich dinner party, the host had invited me to negotiate business, which really was quite the formal way of saying he wanted to exploit everything I have written to his own financial gain as he was losing stocks. And she was there, amongst the liquor and the hill view of the sunset and the dust-coated antiques. It was ever so easy to notice the effort it took her to blend in with the people of her surroundings, something I, myself, had felt. We sought comfort with each other for these countable hours until dinner came to past. I'd allow myself to say it was the most comforting hours of my week, it felt as though I was speaking to a person who's familiar with every curve and fold of my mind, so pleasantly different in ways yet the same in others. We were so lost in a world of our own, shielded from all that's around us when dinner was over and people starting slipping out of the place, we forgot to ask for a way to communicate with each other again. And I thought, at the time, she was a temporary mirage sent for my comfort, one of the things that come and go. But then I saw her times and times again in random places, the coffee shop, Evie the florist, leaving the church one Sunday morning. In no way was that a coincidence of a small town, I liked to believe. And maybe it was the delusion of my own feelings reflecting on everything I see, but I had never seen such genuine smile carved on anyone's face the way hers was every time she saw me. Through the little exchanged conversation, I came to know she lived in the house only a few blocks away from mine.
Somehow, she became the small detail that draws itself in my mind as I lie down staring at the ceiling at the end of every day.