Letter to a beloved who is away

Running high on emotions i might be, yet i choose to announce: I like it. The book you sent me mail. And, i like Karla from the book. And i like Lin’s sadness, his love for freedom. People are obligated to relate with the characters of the book or movie or even paintings and i assume that, that this..this resonance of relating to the characters or  the entire art itself is the ultimate hope or ultimate victory of the artists(/authors/painters/creators)..to make people feel or realize that deep down we are one..we always were. We have our parts in each other..and we are nothing but parts of other people..stories we live are hardly alone..the world makes us who we are in our waking states. We just react and respond to stimuli and the reaction and respodance in turn depends on how the world has treated us in past and how we got motivated or shaped or conditioned by it. Then, how urgent and how important it becomes to know: what we are without this world that makes us..who we are internally..unconditioned.. who we were before we made ourselves a part in the play and started playing a role, post, stupidly creating a self image of who we are are what should our ideal reaction of self defined/assumed personality be. In that sense, our living waking lives, aren’t they a lie? 

So, i was saying i like Lin. And i like the listner in him. He is like you that ways. He listens, observes and he keeps his secrets, his sadness, his feelings, to himself..(till page 64 i guess..i dont know what happens in story further)

And again i felt while reading, an overwhelming desire to thank you enough, for being. One lifetime won’t be enough to thank you for being there listening and understanding and taking care of me when i could not gather courage enough to pull myself up especially for the time and times when people living inches close are oblivious of the state and you.. you work your magic from far beyond. You took me beyond space that ways. :)) I give that one to you. 
Time. I have not been beyond the illusion of time..conceptually or in terms of feeling. I woud like to consume that Truth..time being an illusion..one day. 
I feel a little awkward and shy to say this, but I will say it anyways, nothing to lose since start, if we come close..close enough feel each other with our eyes closed..with our fingers tracing our contours of our faces..then, i would like you to write to me, a poem of your perception. I have seen and felt myself through my eyes and my senses a lot. I can see beauty or no beauty at will. I can stare long enough in my eyes to be teleported and know they hold much more than their physical aspect. I want to see me as not by my perception..but as a third person..like you and me looking together at me and seeing whats there..that what do you sense or percieve..of this person with a frown or a swollen lip or lost gaze or unruly hair and all. 
I waste words enough, darling. It makes me guilty of using them more than i should..to make a point, which can be made without using a single word. Your knowing without my saying, makes them a waste. Or so it seems.



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