An Open Letter

It is late. The night before this one held nothing but pain for me. As I lay twisting, my body distorted by the wretchedness of itself, I realized, that I lay alone.

While this would not normally appeal to my appetite for affection, it affected me. The pain provided by my stomach could not compare to the isolation of my cool chamber.

Many people have come and gone from my life, and many more will follow, I'm sure. As the myriad of faces pass parting glances in my direction, I long for one to stop and return...or to never leave at all.

As I lay alone, I recalled your smile, your laugh, and it gave me comfort. As I lay alone, that brief moment of comfort gave me pause. Did I remember? Was I correct? Did your lips embrace me or did they protect you? Did your embrace comfort me or did it withold me? Did your words betray the truth or did they underscore it? I long for your touch.

Perhaps the doubts are born from a life of rejection. Perhaps the doubts are the result of irrational fear; fear describing the manner of treatment to which I have become accustomed treatment in whose arms the weight of my burden lies.

While I lay twisting, a single tear traced a delicate path upon a cheek which had deflected everything that was brought before it. A cheek which had previously been twisted, itself, into a joyful expression befitting a child. Perhaps it was a child that wore that expression. Perhaps that child is capable of scrupulous internalization. Perhaps that child is afraid. That child is afraid.

I do not call upon you to console that child, but, rather, to appeal to the adult from which that child is born. Is he truly mad? Is it possible that, without prejudice, another could find him so?

The child has walked before. And each unsure step has led him discreetly to disaster. Again, the child walks, but in which direction?

As I prepare to send this message, this blatant plea for an appeal, I hesitate. For I know that such words could mangle the delicate lattice that is the framework of any long-term application of desire. As I prepare to send this message, I don't expect for there to be a reply, although I desire that course of action.

Are you as incredible as you seem? Am I just a schoolgirl swooning at the Saturday afternoon idol? Will I ever hear from you again?

It was not my intention to damage, but the child could not be allowed to walk again without instruction. The child could not walk directionless. The child is not a prize, by any means, but the child can give. The child longs to give. The child is me.

Take care, and write soon.

Copyright © 1996, Karl Edwards.