Writings Upon Writings

  He possessed no emotion other than the one which he reserved for his beloved. He possessed no purpose other than to give to his beloved—to his beloved who seemed apathetic to his existence. Regardless, his beloved was the only thing that he looked forward to. He looked forward to their meeting, even though he knew that his beloved could only see him once. It was a cruel love, indeed.

  He spent days locked up in his room where drawings upon drawings, and writings upon writing of and for his beloved stuck on his off-white peeling wall. He would sit at his old and worn desk, and sit in his old and worn out chair. His stomach ached—nagging at him for sustenance. But he didn't listen.

  Who had time to listen when he was so concentrated on his one and only—his love? He would sit at that desk, yes, he would sit for hours and perhaps even days at that desk, on that chair.

  He would sit there and write a letter. A letter which he so many times would erase and crumble up, throwing it into the overflowing trash where other letters resided. It was a special letter—amazingly special. It was even more special than the drawings upon drawings and writings upon writings of and for his beloved stuck on his off-white peeling wall. 

  It was too special to be drawn or written as crudely as the drawings upon drawings and writings upon writings of and for his beloved stuck on his off-white peeling wall. It needed to be perfect, and so perfect he made it. Of course, that was after the many times he would sit and write, only to erase and reword, and then erase and reword again, and then erase and reword again, and then erase and reword again until he slammed his unsurprisingly weak hand against his old and worn out desk.

  He would then proceed to scream; although when he screamed, it came out in squeaks. He had already screamed too much.

  But, at last, he finally finished the letter for his beloved. It wasn't to be put up with the drawings upon drawings and writings upon writings of and for his beloved stuck on his off-white peeling wall. Rather, it was to be a special letter which he would hold onto—hold onto until he was to meet his beloved in their special meeting place. It wasn't a meeting place they organized together; he planned it all by himself. However, he knew his beloved would be there. They had to be because he knew his beloved, even if his beloved waved him away for the time being.

  So when he clenched his fist around the letter he spent hours and perhaps even days on, he couldn't help a strange, foreign emotion course through him. He only felt emotion towards his beloved, so he didn't know what to call this new feeling.

  It seemed almost similar to the emotion he already felt for beloved, so he didn't mind it.

  After the letter, rewritten countless times to perfection, was finished, he laid himself down onto the floor—letter still clenched in his hand. He gazed upon the drawings upon drawings and writings upon writings of and for his beloved stuck on his off-white peeling wall. His mind was whirling, but despite that, his beloved still stayed on his mind.

  A strange sensation came over him, and he felt an urge to let his eyes slip shut and rest for longer than he had stayed awake writing. He let himself do just that and drifted slowly.

  Finally with his beloved.