Diary of a Madman

(Saturday, September 02, 2006)

"Whenever I am alone with you
You make me feel like I am whole again"

Where is she?
Sitting idly,
A voice of simplicity
Perhaps that’s all she was after all,
A writers fall.

If I could write one work of fiction to clear up the remnants of my timeworn ideals, it would be a letter addressed to that fantastical girl I always write to, my perfect match—a non-existent perfect being.

This is it,
A letter for you, my fair lady,

I haven’t seen you in months.  All that’s left is a hint of your presence.  Your smile on someone else’s face, your touch on someone else’s hands, and even your warmth in someone else’s arms.

I find myself in an unfamiliar area with a cup of coffee thinking about you.  A crowd of people surrounds me; I must have just beaten the rush, as I noticed that there are a handful of people without anywhere to sit.  I’m in a nicer part of town, the shops are cleaner, there are no homeless people on the streets, and everyone seems to be content with their daily lives.

It’s very cold at the moment, just like the first night I met you, but this time, the only thing I have to keep me warm is the 2 mile walk back to my apartment. 

I am alone, as it should be; contemplating the changes I have endured over the past year.  The girls here act as if they’ve never seen a writer before, or more so, a writer with long hair and a fitted shirt.  They actively indulge themselves in a conversation about shoes, or some other first level awareness conversation of that genre, as they casually steal glances.

I chose this spot, because once, not so long ago, I stumbled across a writer with similar characteristics and your beauty.  She faced the window to ignore her inner cafe onlookers, she wrote with a silver pen in a mead composition book, and she sat in deep thought, with a half-smile, knowing the whole world was watching her.

To my fortune I saw her after a long tedious week, filled with tight living arrangements and confusion of what events were to take place next.  To my misfortune it was the home stretch of a 6 mile walk on a disgustingly hot day.  My style consisted of glazed over eyes, torn up shoes, and a button up shirt, stuck to my back.  I was in no position to talk to my own mother, let alone the concentrated energy of the most treasured being in Southern Berkeley.

She took a breath in thought to measure my worth.  Her smile widened for less than a second, perhaps from my appearance, or perhaps the fact that she could tell she won over another soul, from the puppy dog look in my eyes.  Almost as quickly as she had stopped, she returned to her writing.  Under any other circumstance, I’m positive I would have not only been dressed for the occasion, charming, and articulate enough to be assured that I would have seen her again.

I thought I’d jot a quick note and give it to her, I mean, what else would you give a writer?  But the words didn’t click, not like they used to anyways.  So I finished my cold iced mocha and walked away in defeat.

It’s funny how life works out.  A year ago I would have been too shy to even look a girl of her nature in her eyes.  That all changed when I met you 10 months ago at a party.  I never thought that a moment with you would be enough to catalyze a dramatic change on my generally stubborn views.  But I was wrong; of course being wrong was second nature then.  I always had the knack to choose the girl that would never write back.  Mostly anyone under 23, I met a 23 year old that loved to write, once.

But as far as 19 year olds go, you really were the last I’ll ever write to; because it was you that taught me I could never win in writing, not at this age anyways.  You and every girl I ever wrote to before you. 

Recently I lost my developing articulate nature.  I guess you could say I’m stuck in limbo.  Confused on what ethics to stand by.  Mostly, I need closure in order to move on.   So, I write this final letter to you, to finish a completed thought.

Unfortunately, you are just a girl now, living in a society that plays a wicked game (don’t worry, I can play it too.) and read my writings based on some warped rational.  But I will receive justice, in a few years when my words take hold on your growing mind, and you wonder.

Because the beauty of writing is it is eternal, immortal; through it, you will always remember me.  A great letter is abnormal, and otherwise non-existent in present society.  Whichever way you choose to remember it, you will always remember it.

You will remember the way I wrote it.
From the moment time stopped, the first time we crossed paths
To the inspiring sounds of novice musicians at the gypsy den,
Alone, scared and confused on a 9 hour bus trip home.
Those late nights, early risings, at the beach surrounded by that great blue abyss,
Or lost in thought, in my car, at the park, on a silent night

When you look back with varying thought, awe, and question.
It is then that you will know, that I, I really did love you.

What you will never know is what happened next.
Eliot said it best,
Footfalls echo in the memory,
down the passage which we did not take,
towards the door we never opened,
into the rose-garden.

You’ll never know what tremendous feats I am capable of, how I can master anything, or that I am the best guy you will ever meet.

You will never know the music that played over and over again, until the play list became a single song that was forever lost to the memory of me writing to you.

You will never know the absolute defeat I felt, when every ounce of who I was, was put on a piece of paper, into one perfect letter, for the sake of one simple response, which never came.

It’s sad realizing I will never think the same again; a dance is only a dance, a letter is an expensive use of time, and moments are nothing at all.  I’m happy I once wrote like that.  It’s nice to know that I had the benefit of living life from an abstract angle.

You were like a revolution.
I sacrificed my humble views the first time I saw you.  Short hair and prudence were second to go.  Judgment, thought process, and memories were next in line.  Writing and Romanticism (spontaneity, chivalry, and gallantry) were soon to follow.  Finally in completion, I am left a realist, a scientist, a mathematician, a life based on patterns.
 
I never live in the gray area; it’s always been my fall that I live in the extreme of one view.  You can never get anything done with an indecisive nature.  Congruency is the only thing that keeps a mind sane.

But I suppose for you lady, it was worth it, you taught me how to behave in this cold cruel world.  Through you I mastered speech and rid myself of useless emotions.  I never did anything for myself, until I met you, and learned that, that was the first step.  It was you that taught me to work in my own self-interest. 

I was so close to success.  I charmed your friend, my obstacle, had her wanting more, all that was left was to meet you, again, in my new state of being.  I could’ve won you over in person, but like an idiot, I wrote to you.

What I should of known was, who I wrote to, was not you, you’re just an idea, a dream, a fairy tale memory.

But, She is out there; I know she is.

For that reason, I’ll never stop writing, as long as I look for her.
She will have the key to my mind.
She will know the formula for writing.  First step being seclusion, alone in solitude, or in an oversized crowd.
She will know the music.  The music that brings backs memories.  Soft songs, flowing songs, fast songs.
She will know the best way to let loose is to forget the audience, and write a complete raw thought.
She will know that everything is held in forgotten writings, the right flavor of coffee, and the locations.
She will know that she is the sole reason for my writing.

Oh, I’ll write like I used to, someday,
She is out there; I know she is.  I saw her with my own eyes. 
She is out there, somewhere, waiting to revert my changing mind.

But until then, I will place my thoughts on hold in this letter to you.  They are locked here, stored away, should I ever need them again. 

-Gary

10:03 AM