How longingly I have wished to find you here in the solitary corridors of dreams. Do you recall the secret which was my offering to you? Do you recall how young the dreams I dreamt, how juvenile the shyness of my eyes? Remember now how well it stood the truth there dripping from my lips. Now I have learnt that love is ineternal—for everyone, and for us too—. The flow of life is irresistible. Nothing is true but for a day.
I wrote to you one day that I was like the wind. Draw your curtains open, I said, and I shall flow to you, so that you may become a stranger to solitude. We were but children. The moon was shining clear. Your face was that of early youth. And now I cannot draw my mind away from thinking about the windlessness of the earth.
To love is to uphold the entirety of a being, as if it was a final offering, the one and only sacrifice which could bargain the forgiveness of our god. Here in my house, alone, I sit alone and write at night, alone, that I uphold you. Still, after all these years… I speak your name so that you become a spell. I vividly imagine you, so that you become a ghost.
I must remember you, so as to live this searching life which gives the memory of you.