Posthumously Yours.

Letter 5 - Cryptic Conundrum

Dear Lilith,

There are countless people on this accursed planet, who have at some time or the other faced a conundrum , one capable of changing their very existence drastically. I, albeit being no more, am possibly being posed a dilemma that is now inflicting me in death, making me turn in my grave. A dilemma. A mind boggling array of conundrums. A series of what ifs and could haves. Even in death, I ponder of what we could have been, if I had taken that one first opportunity to talk to you. 

I wonder incessantly if the letters you write to me constantly ask that one, same, predictable question. The one question that any one in your place would ask. Any one who has received letters from a dead boy who never spoke to them when alive and well.Would you ask why I left? Why would I, a seemingly cheerful, healthy and soulful human being, one of absolutely no apparent cause to take his own life, a gift he was so opportune to have been bestowed with, reject it? I'll tell you why, Lilith. 

I despised myself, for I was no one to you. I was nothing but a fragment of the background of your colourful, immaculately perfect life. Someone who had a role so fickle and temporary that you wouldn't have even noticed my sudden absence. I assume you would have even thrown away these swiftly written last words of my life, for I was of meagre importance to you. How could I, someone who had almost never spoken to you expect even an iota of affection from the distant, far away, beautiful, angel that you were? How could I ever assume that I would matter to you when you were forever surrounded by the sea of admirers, those shallow flock of mindless sheep who never managed to see past your exterior charms? You had so many vying for your attention that I was reduced to a mere wistful on looker who could only dream of one day being the object of your attentive eyes.How would they who were only perceptive to your physical attributes, ever know that a treasure trove of even more wondrous delights lay behind that subtle screen of outward beauty?

How would they know of how you would read alone in the library with your nose scrunched up and your face a reflection of intense concentration, and how you would frown, feeling my gaze upon you and the following, conscious grin that rapidly lit up your face with the brightness of a gazillion suns? How would they know how you were lost in your own world so often, and how you would leave me wondering as to what could possibly be occupying that mysteriously enticing mind of yours? How could they possibly imagine your irrational love for all things blue, and the way you would adorably squeal coming across a kitten taking it in your arms like it was all that mattered then and for ever ? How would they know how you would run out with uncontrollable excitement upon hearing the jingle of the ice cream cart with enthusiasm alike to one of a sweet treat deprived child. How could they ever fathom of the way you would sit under the maple tree I might now be fortunate enough to have a permanent resting place beneath, scribbling away with what seemed like a rage driven pace , and the way a gentle tendril of your soft brown hair would fall upon your eyes obstructing your view and the way you would blow it off with the mild annoyance of a bird shooed at, disturbing it from its morning song and then returning back to its serenade. How could they know how I ached to be the fortunate possessor of the hand that would brush that strand away, hastening the passage of the momentary distraction returning you to your intense reverie?

I was nothing to you. A nobody, a lingering yet immaterial presence in the ever continuing miracle that your existence was and is now continuing to be.

I was nought to you. But you,  my glorious Lilith, you in life and even in disastrous death, continue to be my everything.

Posthumously Yours,

Damien