This Isn’t A Love Letter, I Swear

My dearest,

Our story is an odd one. Unique at best and yet, even that’s an understatement. It’s one that continuously dances through the years and with many more in the offing. It’s damn near impossible to describe the dynamic between us and I need not try, yet somehow I’m curiously compelled. Labels are arbitrary anyway but for the sake of my discourse, I’ll make an attempt.

“Friends” doesn’t work, and/or if it does, it doesn’t “just” work. The term doesn’t dent into our history nor cut into what we are. It does no justice to us whatsoever. The term is too ambiguous, and leaves infinity up to the imagination. (Note that while I do truly love ambiguity, in general, I’m looking for a more solidifying term for the intents and purposes of this missive.) Other terms hold too much certainty and, God knows, one of my most cherished aspects of us is our inevitable uncertainty. Unpredictability fuels this crazy train, my dear, and I love it. But nonetheless, words are too static, too absolute, and none are veracious in describing us.

We are a fluctuation of definitions; we are a spectrum. Our closeness needs not a term nor specific subscription, as no single word can encapsulate all that we are.

No, our closeness needs a novel, something of depth and elaboration, something that gives and yields room for change.

You and I, dear, are waves in a dancing ocean. Our novel climaxes and falls tumultuously as we pull and push each other through the chapters. We are peaks and troughs traversing time. Past pages spill with emotions, events, nights of utter debauchery, memories that I’ll surely never forget. And as the pages keep turning, our story unfolds.

I don’t know how it happened, or why for that matter. I won’t ask questions and I won’t mince words. I know that I’m drawn to you (consciously or not); perhaps it’s our similarities, or perhaps not. Our dissimilarities shine harmonious as well. I’ve written about the dark and light within you; what emanates loudly and what sleeps quiescently buried inside. This juxtaposition of the diametrically opposed simply mystifies me. I’m enthralled. You’re a melody yet to be written, consonant and dissonant in tandem, major and minor, symphonic and cacophonic, constantly creating this never-ceasing mystery to me. You’re a damn intrigue.

I stand by the notion that we are endlessly bound to each other. Darling, I’m a cynic but if there’s a modicum of optimism within me, it’s this.

Life is chaotic. Events are random–everything is random. Everything does not happen for a reason. Things just happen, and rarely is there ever an explanation. But every so often, a pattern arises out of the sheer and thundering chaos that is life. Einstein said, “God doesn’t play dice.” I disagree. I think she does play dice. But if you throw those dice down repeatedly for eternity, eventually you’ll get all pairs, or all odd numbers or even numbers or any other random pattern. Ever so rarely, a pattern occurs within chance. And if we can recognize it in this moment, elegance is born. It’s at this moment that chance becomes fate, randomness becomes kismet, coincidence becomes serendipity, fortuity becomes destined. My dear, you and I are that moment. We are that rarity. Together we are the creators of that elegance. We have interrupted the entropic disorder of life and for that reason we are endlessly bound.

Years will come and go, people will arrive and depart. Our story will accelerate; our story will idle. Highs and lows, peaks and troughs, plateaus. Pages might fall empty, or one word here and there but the pages will still turn nonetheless. Our novel still continues. Our story endures because we are and will still be endlessly bound, always.

We aren’t a word, because there isn’t just one.

Yours truly, then, now, and to come