Letters of Love: On the very personal art of writing, whether poetry or prose, as a means to convey the emotion of love.

Today, I sat down and reread all the letters of love I've written.

No, I don't mean love letters. Letters of love.

Word pieces, whether prose or poetry, that convey my love for one person or the other.

I read every single one I still have access to, dating as far back as 2019. I've long since gotten rid of the ones I wrote before that simply because it was terrible writing.

I tend to believe that whenever I enter a depressive dump, I stop feeling, that I have become incapable of the one thing that makes a person a human: the ability to feel. But rereading these letters, I now realize that I have never, not once, stopped feeling. Even in the worst of my depression, I haven't stopped feeling.

My problem is actually just that. I feel too much. I allow too much to affect my heart. But god fucking hell, do I love.

My therapist once refuted my claim that I am not a person who is prone to addiction. She said that I might not be prone to addiction when it comes to substance, but I have a pattern. You see, I get addicted to people. I get addicted to the way they make me feel.

Some of my letters are more than 15 pages long. I have 100+ pages of letters that I've written from September to November of 2023. Because there's so much I feel and because I think about what I feel as much as I do.

My therapist has, time and time again, appreciated how well-articulated I am when I present my problems in front of her. She says I'm mature and introspective and constantly working on myself by being just that. I think so much, but it doesn't change anything. I'm still as broken as I've always been. I feel just as alone as I always do. Maybe I'd feel better if I started talking about the love I feel. 
It took my therapist 3 months to convince me to actually start talking about my ex.

"If I loved you less, I might be able to talk about it more."

-Jane Austen, in 'Emma'

It took her 3 months to convince me to actually bring my ex's name up, let alone the details of our short-lived relationship. I can't seem to talk about them; I refuse to. I think it's because I feel like if I can't make them mine forever, at least my memories with them will remain mine and mine alone. Or I just subconsciously want to continue living in the delusion that what we had was beautiful.

Anyhow,  I reread all my letters of love today and realized that I am capable of great love, but I am also bound to always lose to love. You see, when you give yourself up to love the way I have, you lose yourself and any sense of individuality you ever had. When I am in love, I tend to forget the me that existed before my love. I tend to become the me that is so intricately bound to my love that separation might destroy me altogether.

I reread all my letters of love today, every single one.
I almost feel bad for some of the people for missing out on the unconditional love I would've poured on them. But I know they made the right choice, whether it was not loving me or not choosing me. And that's because I could have, and would have drowned them in my love, and not in a good way. That is why we need balance in life.

I want to share with the reader one of my poems. It's one of my personal favorites from my own collection. I don't have a name for it.

-

Like the tattered edges of the letters I wrote to you tremble against the high winds,

like the chittering teeth trying to friction some heat into existence grind against each other;

like the three dancing dots you see as I type and retype messages to you for the millionth time,

like the crown I placed on your head, the dagger I placed in my heart, proclaiming your soul mine's lover.

what do I know of love, young, oblivious, and childlike?

all I know is your heart and what it means to me;

of how I could close my eyes and render myself blind,

hold your hands, and to only through your eyes, again I'd see.

trust is a double-edged sword,

love is its sheath;

you are the owner of this weapon,

and you shoved this sword into me.

I write these words, so utterly valueless,

I keep writing, hoping to appease myself;

write and write, I do, crying bloody murder,

only to wrap it up, hide it away on the topmost shelf.

your love carries me forward,

as it does pull me back.

it gives me wings on my shoulderblades,

and weights hanging off my ankles,

clack;

they keep colliding with each other,

the collision resounds with an audible crack,

so loud, so loud, my eardrums go blank,

my heart hurts;

the sound echoes your lack.

i drown myself in sorrows

and hope that the breath in my lung survives.

so that you could one day breathe it.

I wish you'd know my sorrows,

I wish you'd have to surmise.

I wish I could summarize.

What? you ask.

My pain, I say.

I wish you'd know that I loved you so

but I know that it's not what you wish for.

these words bring momentary peace to me

but to you, I know they'll be but a bore.

Torch my desires

and light them on fire,

the flames will burn bright.

Maybe you might see the ashes of this incredible ignition,

and maybe the world will finally feel right.

these words I write bear no consequence,

only the hurt of my heart and the depths of my soul;

read them. read them with caution.

Lest the agony they hold consume you whole.

-

You see, writing is a personal art.

One cannot write what they do not care about. And if they do, one can usually tell. But the art of writing is to make the reader care, or at least make the reader understand why the author cares.

I don't write for other people. I write for me.

All my writing is personal to the level that even the letters I've written for specific people will never reach their rightful receivers. Because the letter, though written to them, is not meant for their eyes. It's mine and mine alone. My suffering, my pain, and my feelings are my own. And nobody yet has proven themselves to be worthy of knowing my soul, a secret I hide from even myself.

I'm only 19, I know. I'm inexperienced, I know. My writing is an amateur's diary entry, I know. But that's the thing, right? I'm an amateur, and these are my diary entries. My writing is decidedly raw. If there is wordplay or poeticism, it comes straight from my heart. I rarely ever edit my work unless I'm adding more.

This blog is a display section of my art, and my art is an insight into me. 

Welcome to the universe that is my heart. I hope you find something that inspires you, motivates you, or resonates with you.

With much love,

Kev (Pulkit)