Dearest,
I don’t think I’ve ever told you this, but before we had even met for the first time, I’d heard your name like coin drops in a fountain. Small clinks and drips in different areas of the water, conflicting messages in every bubble. Opinions, I guess you could call them. Same frequency with each sound, general consensus that you were good and I would like you. There was the occasional sour comment about your tendency to overdo things or your lack of consideration for people other than yourself. There was the occasional remark about your assumption of self-importance, the occasional eyeroll whenever you were praised. I didn’t really have one first impression of you, in that sense.
But, the moment I laid eyes on you—no, the moment I fixed my eyes on you and studied, really studied, you, I think I knew our connection would be unique and unlike anything I’ve ever experienced before.
That is, until, I read three more plays and realized your most defining characteristics are not unique to you. All this to say, you’re not special, and this isn’t even the first or second or third love letter I’ve written this year.
Tragic middle-aged male protagonist, submissive woman wife who could clearly do better but for some reason is so in love with a trash bag that she’ll take anything she can get, influence of imperialism and nationalism on consumerism and breeding-selfish-people-ism, material possessions, money, possessions, money, possessions, what a society!
You’re not new, you’re not perfect. You’re not special enough to be the greatest there ever was.
And yet, I still get choked up talking about you, if the mood is right. And my words find their way to you, even in the dark.
Maybe it’s the coins again, the clinks and drips guiding me back to you like you’re a vat of nuclear waste and I’m Daredevil or a dolphin or one of those carnivorous bats I watched a documentary on.
Maybe it’s the fact that you were the first one who made me feel this way, crushed on the inside and too disoriented to correct myself with anything more than “some” precision. Maybe it’s the fact that I see myself in you, and that’s why I can’t see myself loving you. Maybe it’s the fact that you remind me too much of the world I live in for me to feel comfortable wanting you.
I don’t think I’ve ever told you this, but before we even met for the first time, I had heard your name like coin drops in a fountain. Once upon a time, I threw a quarter in and knew the weight of regret. Once upon a time, I learned my lesson.
Maybe I shouldn’t throw coins in waters I’m afraid to tread myself. Or, maybe, that’s exactly what I should be doing.