A Dot - II

An unsent love letter

Apr 07, 2026

Dearest,

I drifted off again, just as I did in childhood, into the clouds. For a moment I thought I saw a swallow, then I smiled; ah, my loneliness, which can only dream through its own eyes, how often you have deceived me. Sometimes you filled a cloud heavy with news, letting it fall over me in weighted words; sometimes you tightened around my heart so much that, unable to breathe, you let the wind carry me away. Sometimes you placed a seed in my hand and buried me with it; I still wonder which of us will sprout, as you kept me under a slow, endless rain.

Air, earth, fire, and water. Yes, all of it a dream, each carrying only a trace of you. The more I try to assign meaning, the further reality slips away. Still, I look at the sky, smiling. Again, a bird; defying the grey clouds, its wings pure white. Who knows from which happiness it stole that gliding departure. No, I did not envy it. On the contrary, I only wished it would stay a little longer, just long enough to remind me.

I suppose I am writing to you again. It was not something I had planned. I am always the same; a life somewhere between watching clouds and pulling a pen from my bag. My intention was to take that first paragraph passing through me and, perhaps another day, turn it into a poem. But the pen found its own way again, and here we are.

If a person could know what comes before the desires that begin within them, I think no one would allow them to arrive. Isn’t it a strange thing. A vagabond, a little shameless, even immoral, I might say, though maybe that is unfair to nature. Still, I cannot help but think it. Brazen, yes, it always comes unannounced. Sometimes you find it at your door with suitcases in hand; it lets itself in and settles as if it has always been there.

At first it softens you with poetry, with stories; you think, this is not so bad, let it stay. It comes close, too close, like a lover who skips the introductions, as if time had already happened somewhere else and you were only catching up. It learns the room faster than you do, touches what matters without asking, makes itself familiar before you can question it.

Then it shifts; tell it to look, it avoids you; tell it to love, it vanishes into something else entirely. What once felt precise becomes unclear, what felt certain turns selective.

You accept it as desire, but what it leaves behind has the quiet persistence of sorrow, as if it never intended to stay, only to happen. As if its only task was to pass through you, change something, and leave you with the consequence of having recognized it.

I know. Dreams, metaphors, emotions; and at one end, me, at the other, what we call love, something that never quite leaves, a ghost spread across our skin. We spoke of assigning meaning; yet whenever I try to give something meaning, my consciousness, taking its Gilgamesh role far too seriously, steps in with my awareness and drives away the meaning-creatures that come to my Huluppu tree. As if anyone asked.

As if, for a moment, I had stayed within the ordinary of being human, and let it happen, I could have surrendered to imagination without it being treated as something to defeat. So I leave it now. I watch. What else can I do? And I, like a cuneiform inscription, blend into life’s mysteries.

On one side, the desire to remain human, to get lost in love like everyone else; on the other, a consciousness that does not allow it. It is a strange balance, to feel deeply and yet not claim what you feel.

At times, I think it is a form of mercy, my Gilgamesh, placed among all the challenges life has given me. I feel deeply, so deeply that I can carry the weight of all human tragedy in my body. Perhaps that is why I locked every door to my emotions for years; I could not allow the density of it’s pain.

Then you opened a single crack, and the pressure that had gathered behind it broke through all the walls built to hold it. Sometimes I wonder whether, if I had not built such strong defences before, I would not be writing these lines.

I have no clue why, what, or how. I can only suppose reasons. The result moves somewhere between the ridiculous and the profound. I feel like a philosopher with OCD, whom watched every step to avoid stepping on a line, only to discover that all the lines it feared as catastrophe were simply another form of truth to step into.

Suddenly, all her fears became wonder. What more can a curious mind ask for, when nothing remains to resist or defend? Now, when I remember you, I lean back and let you pass through. Not mine to claim, not a truth to keep, and yet there, like air, earth, fire, and water, all of it a dream, each carrying only a trace of you.

And there stands my tree of life, with Gilgamesh as its quiet guard, no longer protecting it from intrusion. At its trunk, a grave, possession laid to rest. And within that quiet ending, just before it fell silent, the single dot it engraved.

Yours,

Still..