I was just about to leave my house to go to the nearest city with a decent photo shop to develop some films, when the reminder rang — it’s your birthday today.
When I saw the text, I sat on my bed, paralyzed, as if the last months I have been walking by virtue of having repressed a wound that would have otherwise kept me disabled. The soul yearns for reality at some point, my dear.
I live in my mind most of the times, and I yearn for something outside it. I found it in you, but you had to keep what we had in a realm that had an uncanny resemblance to the world of the mind. A place where the physical plane is absent. Where the most I could touch when I reached out, was the surface of my own monitor.
Yet you have penetrated the virtual web that connects us and dove into that solitary heart of mine, with your intelligent humor, creativity and moods; your gloomy, pedantic ruminations; your emotionally charged silences; and last but not least, your beauty and taste.
I feel this knot in my stomach. It is an ironic situation to be in, given my name. Perhaps I am not as great as Alexander,
since the only person who can cut this knot is you.
