Words have never failed me. In fact, my biggest consolation in life is that I can always articulate what I know, how I feel and who I am at any point, any way, any junction of life as it unfolds before me. I have never had a problem with searching for the right words, they find me instead, sometimes none too subtly.
My guess is that my writing muse abandoned me, not when I met you, but because I let you take over her space in my head. I imagine her pain as i let the auteur in me slowly atrophy, to a point beyond recognition. You overwhelmed me with emotions and caused me to exist outside myself, the self that delights in weaving yarns and expressing the soul. You were context and subtext, every theme and reason. I was consumed in all the wrong places, robbed of sanity and speech. And only in the cruelest hand of fate, will retaliation be exacted upon me. I cannot be regretful enough for my muse to forgive me. And she has served me with enough ironic sense to let me write you a letter that chokes upon writing itself...I cannot help but try.
And so, a thousand considerations blur the peripheries of my lucidity. I begin to feel physically ill as I struggle through emotions I couldn't identify. The onerous task of projecting thoughts to paper is one that I never feared before. I wanted to dispense with the cliches, the sentimentality, the sheer banality of it all. But there's a greater need for me to have you realize, to have you experience--even for a moment, the chaos in me. For how could you know that you are the axis of my world...That my need to exist is eclipsed by my need for you. Didn't you know that my happiness hinges upon your understanding? If this letter fails, the dam that holds my pain in will break and my soul will shatter.
