Late at night, when I cannot sleep, I write letters to you in my head. Dozens and dozens of them, complete with crisp lines and the loose tendrils of drying ink. Fountain pens, with curved golden tips, I imagine that you would like the quaintness of them, and the way the words unreeled from a spool of molten gold. Satiny and persuasive; perhaps, you would feel the cursive of my feelings wrapping around you like morning mist. You would feel a little chilly, but all the more, you should embrace those words, shimmering and shivering like young ghosts. Because without you, they have nowhere else to go, except to haunt attics with whispery echoes and sigh softly whenever the night-winds swirled in with a fancy foxtrot or two. And that is what they have been doing all this time. Why do you think that the wind-chimes murmur so? The leaves rustle with unheard secrets, and wizened from their woe, choose to shrivel up in a fetal contortion (the reverse way as it sprouted, be kind when you rewind) and leave their fates with the wind once more. You would giggle, as they crinkle and crunch right under your unseeing feet. All the better to set the thoughts alight then. You would be warmer that way.
On some days, it is easy. But yesterday, that was when things became difficult. When you are young, the world is yours to conquer. Elaborate justifications are put into place, aided by the expanse of time sprawling away from you. There is always time, ripe for the picking. But what do you do when your grandmother turns to you, a bit teary-eyed, and says that she is scared? That 一天一天地过去，孩子越来越大，老人越来越怕. That the winding down of days is simultaneously the winding down of days left. When you are young, the end is at the end of concerns crowding your mind. Friendships, relationships, and all those ships: they are berthed in the shallow-water harbour of thoughts. Mortality and its great purposes are meaty issues to think over, with time to digest it over. But that is the privilege of the young (and youthful). What can you do, other than hold her hand and listen? I don't know; it is hard.
It recently occurred to me that what people are seeking for are human connections in the present. The warmth of a hand, the reassurance of a smile, the appreciation of a shared sense of humour. Our lives are segmented into what and when you deigned to share with others. How can one truly know another person? Even so, what would that mean? The having-been-there is what keeps us going. That, and songs like this, which makes you clutch your heart in something between sadness and hopefulness.
I need to stop living in cyberspace, feeding off scraps of other people's lives. Of late, I have been cooped up in my head, with feverish and futile thoughts bouncing around in my thick skull. It is stupid to harbour hopes for somebody to turn this way. For what it worth, I just want to understand why you are hurting and try to make it all better, although knowing my clumsy lack of tact and insight, I will probably make things worse. What could I possibly do for you anyway? This is pointless. Never mind. If I were you, I would be disgusted with myself too. So much for self-esteem, yaw. I need to find more nice new songs! The Cardigans has a few sparkling gems; The Dead Weather has a haunting anthem called "I Can't Hear You", and in Cultural Studies today, the lecturer played some brilliant oldies. More is more in this case. For now, readings, here I comeeeee.
The first time that I set my eyes upon you, I felt that you were different from the rest. You were intriguing, you were mysterious, you were riveting. Still are, actually. Too bad I will probably never get to know you enough to find out what makes you tick, because I got a feeling that I would like it very much.