My Open Love Letter To Rattle
My dear Rattle,
I woke up this morning to your photograph with her in the newspapers. Your new Golden girl. You are telling her how her love letters to you are unlike anything ever written before, how aesthetically beautiful they are, how breathtaking her metaphors are. You are analyzing and justifying this new love of yours. She the one in her glamorous robes and she the one who is the talk of the town, has your heart now. You are wishing the world for her.
I must say I am confused.
I thought you only accept love letters from your mystic Goddess of the Isle.
Goddess of words from above who takes centuries of poetry and beads together its lyrics, composition, and language to write you a letter that is way beyond the ordinary lackluster ability of any mortal being. She, the queen of literature, was your muse. She was the dream you rejected my love letters for.
I wrote to you many love letters.
Now my love letters were really poor. They really were. And you told me so. They were not elegant, they were not royal. They were half woven incomplete pieces that hadn’t reached the depths of poetic heart, they missed the soul of language and were struggling with their existence; they were not ready to take the ownership of falling in love.
They were really struggling between their artistic visions, their literary desires and their idea of acceptance by a lover like you. They were in no way any match to the heavenly songs by your mystic Goddess of the Isle. So I accepted my inability to ever be accepted by you. I would never be your lover. I would forever keep your letters of rejection and study them every day to be accepted someday in the empire of love.
But I must say I am very confused now. Has your love for the celestial now been replaced by the shining pen of fame and beauty driven by the claps of her audience? Does your love follow gold now abandoning the light of your queen?
You tell me you want to accept every kind of love now, sparkling or not, majestic or mediocre, transcending or stagnated. And I get that. What I do not get is how come it doesn’t include my kind of love? The kind of love that is in her rags, never understood, never wanted. What about my kind of love? This is what I would have liked to know, dear Rattle.
But I do not now. Now I know you are just confused, just like most men out there. So I must leave you now. I am not saying I will not stalk you anymore. I will. Because with established caretakers of love like you, I want to see where the Bazaar goes from here. But I will not love you anymore. And I will certainly not write you any letters.
Be well, my love. Once upon a time.
Your lost love,