I always have such need to merely talk to you *

I’ve always known who you are. Until you arrived in it, you were the woman I could never meet in my reality, because I wasn’t made or built to attract or draw that kind of attention. I lurk in the shadows, working unseen, by stealth you might say, like a wisteria growing steadily and silently through the day and the night, clothing and then binding your naked body with the soft and delicate touch of its leaves, buds and flowers; or perhaps it is that I’m like a private detective working a difficult case, narrowing down all the angles until there is only one admissible solution (or perhaps two, seeing as how we neither of us yet know the story’s end for sure). In certain lights I must seem as single-minded as a tennis champion or a worker bee, and as maddeningly obsessive as a crate digger or panner for gold. But I knew you from the first moments of reading and meeting you, knew that you would expand to fill the space of my life till there was only you, that good, bad and ugly (or rather, beautiful, maybe not so good, and maybe not so beautiful, and that’s an averaging out my rose-tinted view and your over-bleak self-assessment, by the way), I would welcome you in, make a home for you here, furnished by you and for you. Would give you anything you wanted. I have done so from day one, and I will go on doing so until you tell me, with a conviction that is not to be undermined by the passing of time, no more. But even then, of course, it would continue, because such permanent restraint would also be an act of love.

My darling, there really isn’t anything you could tell me that would make me think less of you. It only grows, this love, and it never crusts. When your thorns prick me, of course I bleed. But this body is still young enough to repair itself, this mind still sufficiently agile. The heart that sends that blood around it beats for you alone, and whether you’re there or not, you are the rhythm of my days, the temper of my pulse, the oxygen that fuels my brain. That is the nature of my love. Undying, unstinting, unyielding. It’s a madness, of course, and yet to wish to stay in that state seems to me to be the sanest response to a world filled with so many other, lesser kinds of madness, and some of those so terrible. The fruits of the fever of love are the sweetest, and besides, no magnificent endeavour was ever achieved, no legendary tale finally told, without a little insanity and some greater or lesser degree of difficulty along the way.

* ‘Wherever I am, wherever I go, I always have such need to merely talk to you. Even when I have nothing to talk about – with you I just seem to go right ahead and sort of invent it. I invent it for you. Because I never seem to run out of tenderness for you and because I need to feel you near. Excuse the bad writing and excuse the emotional overflow. What I mean to say, perhaps, is that, in a way, I am never empty of you; not for a moment, an instant, a single second.’ – Virginia Woolf, from a letter to Vita Sackville-West

 

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