The Letter – 2

How much time had passed? Heart beat driving like Ayrton Senna in the Monaco Grand Prix; He took a few deep breaths and pictured a calm sea. Then he opened his eyes and the waiting was over. The calm sea he had painted rapidly rolled into The Wave by Katsushika Hokusai. His stomach dropped like Pheidippides after his run from the battle of Marathon to Athens. He really shouldn’t be so shook up. He wanted her to make her choice, but he wanted her choice to be the same as his. “How could I be so selfish,” he thought. Quickly everything he had lined up in his head departed with his exhale.

Just as quickly as it all left him, it all came rushing back as he sucked in a large breath of cool air. He began sweeping in his head. Everyone is always looking for something. They might not admit it to themselves, but you can read it. Especially when you know what they’ve been through. It’s not even a forecast; It’s actual. They have hopes hanging from their lips the way a ripe fruit weighs down on its branch. Even Tantalus wouldn’t reach for his hopes though. The way that forsaken man looked up at him and shook his head should have been more than enough to go ahead and lower the casket on this. He never locked doors though. He was never afraid of what might come barging through uninvited.

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The letter – Don’t Expect

The sun is high noon, beating down on his skin like a barrage of compliments from someone you haven’t seen in a while. He knew standing there too long would get him burnt, but he had reason to wait, more a feeling he couldn’t shake. He checked his phone for the time. One of the few nice days the year had seen so far, and on his mind was a place and time far from where he stood. He had spent a lot of his life waiting. He’d been wrestling with that concept now for a while. Why should any time in life be spent waiting? When the right time is near it will appear, he thought. We get so carried away, obsessing over what’s next. We could just relax and look at what’s now, then when what’s next is up, turn to it. For him the problem wasn’t waiting. It was wasting. He expected the best out of things. He saw no reason every moment couldn’t be everything it dreamed of being. Why every person couldn’t become more! He didn’t like to waste.

Yet here he was. Wasting. At least he was enjoying the sun. That was never a waste, however the fact could not be removed from his current situation; Again he was waiting. He noticed he had been checking his phone for the time incessantly. He was a dreamer. Maybe the king of wishful thinking. He could blame all those films. The ones about love and how things break down, but then through some sheer willful hearts and circumstance or luck, everything works out. Yeah they had watched a few of those. He was a romantic. He didn’t consider romanticizing a waste. It did waste a lot of his days though. He spent every other minute rearranging what he would say. He had to keep in mind that it wasn’t his choice. “I can’t make you love me,” he thought like Tank covered from Bonnie Raitt. I don’t want you to be “Somebody that I used to know,” like that silly Gotye song. He already knew the answer. He had felt it in the long days and lonelier nights. He knew she felt it too, but he wanted to give her space to find her happiness. It wasn’t his decision.