Justin Silverblade Posted April 6, 2007 Report Share Posted April 6, 2007 (edited) Dedicated to two dear friends of mine, one who taught me everything I ever needed to know about love with his step and to another who caused me to experience it in all its brilliance with her smile. An Epistle My Beloved, I hope you are well. I wish there was a way to stress those words, but I must confess I cannot italicize my written word without making it utterly illegible. Of course, in and of itself, merely altering the text would not – just as putting it first and foremost does not – properly include the importance of the expression. It contains more of my heart than any other thing that you will hereafter endure. I suppose you might be wondering why I have written you. I can well imagine that this missive might have sat unopened upon your desk for weeks – in dread no doubt. Or perhaps it is destined to never meet your eyes but instead greet the tender lick of your lit fireplace still sealed. I remember with remorse the part I played quite clearly, and know that certainly the Great Composition may have seen such an ending fit. However, I will take enough joy in the writing that should you never grace it with your attention I shall not be the worse for it. You might take solace in the resulting reprieve this grants you in regard to a reply. Though as I sit back in consideration, I realize that you may wonder a great many things about this letter to you. Perhaps that it is a rekindling of my former “inner demons” that we were so fond of discussing. Perhaps still you wonder what, after all this time and after our rather abrupt ending, motivates me to mail you. I would suppose my opening salutation would give you reason for curiosity. Or why I did not attempt email or a phone call instead. All of this, of course, is answered in the first of my musings: why I have written at all. The truth is, it is simply because I wanted to. Simply. Amidst a cigar and air-dancing, somewhere between the beginning of my evening fire and the end of my 24th track of Frank Sinatra, I thought of you. Then of us. Then of me. And I thought it might be nice to record it for posterity. At some point, instead of a date and time, it began with a greeting, and before I knew it I was writing you a letter in my head. “Better one in the hand than two in the bush,” or something like that, and here we are. People write love letters of all kinds. I do not endeavor to do so here and now with you, nor do I have any such inclination. ‘Tis not a script of a wanton return to a life together. Our story is finished, our tale told, and I have no interest in attempting to add another chapter to it with the heading: “Romance Revisited.” I am not married, though I do see someone regularly. We are quite happy together. I am healthy, and enjoy my work immensely. I have moved into a bigger city (as I’m sure the envelope’s return address blatantly and rather ineloquently displays) and am quite at home with being lost amidst the crowd. I believe that covers the lot of unimportant niceties. Our tragedy taught me a great deal. Though I cannot tell you exactly when it “ended” for me, when it was finally “over,” I can tell you that it took the entirety of the course for me to really appreciate the life lessons taught to me. But with it all safely encased in antiquity, I most certainly appreciate them now. Of it all, I have learned that I give the entirety of my heart to those I love. Irrevocably, it is theirs. While in lover’s passion I always make the promise, through thick and thin I most certainly keep it. I know not what you do, what joys you experience or what trials you face. I know not your new quirks, likes or dislikes, but I know that you are still and forever my beloved. Love founded in lust and kept in loyalty. And yet, it does not limit my capacity to love another. The person I am with can trust that they have all of me, completely, and always will. What a wondrous thing, this! I have found that it keeps me warm on the coldest of days. But it can be a lonely warmth. Devoid of both reciprocity and passion in its most perilous moments, there exists a time no poet speaks of. After the sonnets of counting love’s splendors and the subsequent angry drawl of broken-hearted cynics, there is a period of nothingness. “Darkest before the dawn” has never been so aptly applied. For during that time, apathy of a most divine ilk takes control of a lover’s heart. Then, during that trial, the “wondrous warmth” provides nothing of substance or sustenance for the soul. And bleak though that picture painted (and bleak it most perfectly it is), it is not the most definitive portrait of my learning. Merely a point that had no finite beginning and no recorded ending, from which I emerged one day blinded by the sun that had always awaited my return. And as I began to learn how to see again – how to appreciate again – apathy turned to distant (never forgotten) memory and I found that strange warmth re-kindled. Though we were miles apart, both literally and figuratively, my love had survived and had uttered the same promise to me that I had uttered to you: “I will always love you.” Take the meaning as you may, for I recognize that it can have many. Try as I might, I cannot find one I disapprove of. Another of the beatitudes of love. I ought to thank you – and so I do. Not for our happiest times together – for that is long since passed and was appreciated in its time. Not for our toughest times together – for as we both know that deserves no thanks from either of us. And not for our subsequent time apart - for by definition that is a time where you knew nothing of me. Instead the thanks goes to something both trivial and eternal (in one of the many strange dualities love is capable of): thank you for the opportunity to love you. And I mean that in the fullness of the love that I have hereto explained. From the moment I fell in love, through climax and chasm, and finally through times you never wanted its touch, and further still times you may have doubted and/or forgotten its existence, and ever beyond into times when I truly learned, my appreciation for its every depth could not have been made possible without our encounter. What splendid terror and triumph our parents knew when they spoke of partnerships and love to us. Never before did I comprehend the knowing behind their eyes: it is impossible to convey. It is far more than I imagined when considered in its fullness. If you too have experienced it as I have, then I am – in a word – glad for you. Innocent, fresh born, virginal love is a dear sweet and precious thing. We know it but once, and pluck it ripe from the tree. Far before we comprehend its true rarity we enjoy its perfect shape, lush scent, and divine taste. It is unlike anything else in our entire lives. Guilty, well-aged, love-experienced is a perfectly unique and inalienable thing. We know it forever, and savor it deep within reaches of us formerly unknown. Far after we comprehend its entire beauty we enjoy its rich body, full glow, and divine taste. It is unlike anything else in our entire lives. For me, you have been, and are, both. I hope you are well. - Your Lover Edited April 8, 2007 by Justin Silverblade Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Justin Silverblade Posted April 6, 2007 Author Report Share Posted April 6, 2007 Inspired by personal life, and of course, a bit of warm evening jazz. Thoughts very welcome, as always. As well, thoughts on a title would be welcome as well. It's a great oppertunity to add something very slight to the work, but I'm not sure exactly what. "An Epistle to-something" is what I'm thinking, but An Epistle to Love is just tooooooooooo mushy/cliche for it. Enjoy, and sorry I haven't been kicking around lately, it's been a pretty busy life for me lately! Hope everyone has a wonderful Easter weekend! - Justin Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Patrick Posted April 8, 2007 Report Share Posted April 8, 2007 Absolutely stunning writing. One can really imagine themselves in the place of the writer of the epistle. As for a possible title. Might be too cliché and too simple, but what about "An epistle to you"? Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
GeldrinHor Posted April 8, 2007 Report Share Posted April 8, 2007 Inspired by personal life, and of course, a bit of warm evening jazz. Thoughts very welcome, as always. As well, thoughts on a title would be welcome as well. It's a great oppertunity to add something very slight to the work, but I'm not sure exactly what. "An Epistle to-something" is what I'm thinking, but An Epistle to Love is just tooooooooooo mushy/cliche for it. Enjoy, and sorry I haven't been kicking around lately, it's been a pretty busy life for me lately! Hope everyone has a wonderful Easter weekend! - Justin Perhaps not SO mushy, if you chose a few more words to accompany it... My Epistle to Love Lost and Found OR A catchier title: Lost and Found: An Epistle to Love Excellent work, by the way Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
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