Friday, February 14, 2014

Letter to a superhero

My dear Superhero,

This is the first, and probably the last time, I shall name you and speak to you directly through this. It is in the reason that I already ran out of ways to reach you that I am writing this. You see, I've tried countless times, devising schemes to snatch your attention even for a teensiest ounce of time, but, still, I failed miserably. And despite my pre-conclusion that a difference is not of much, and that in the same way you repeatedly ignored me, this will suffer the same fate in your hands, one can always pray. And if so that by the end fate shall prove me right, then for my own indulgence please allow me to continue.

In William Shakespeare's "Twelfth Night", Orison, the romantic Duke of Illyria, fell lovesick for the beautiful Olivia. Now if you had the fortune of reading this comedy, please skip the part which revolves around the confusion on the characters' identity. My point being that Duke Orison fell in love. But Olivia, mourning the death of his brother and father, swore not to fall in love within seven years and so dismisses the duke's profession of love.

In the opening scene of Act 1, we hear Duke Orsino laments:

If music be the food of love, play on;
Give me excess of it, that surfeiting,
The appetite may sicken, and so die.
That strain again! it had a dying fall:

Within a period of a year that I believe I came to know you, I guess I cannot count the number of times that you dismissed me. But then in the beginning of our fateful encounter, I can still remember how you confessed that you "like" me. Whatever that meant, I guess I'll never know. But that moment I took for a moment of bliss. Countless times I clinged to it, drawing hope that a fateful day would come and I will be blessed with the pleasure of being in your company.

But pray tell, until when a mortal shall wait? In a languor of melancholy, I indulge further into the depths of missery brought by your cold reception. I do this, like Duke Orison, believing that due to the excess of it all, I may grow sickened and this feeling I have for you may finally die and I will be at peace again.

And yet my own concocted potion, in the hopes of curing such obsession with you, in overloading myself with my patethic litle passions, draws me further, buries me deeper under your spell. The days of imaginings, of writing silent poems in honor of you went on. And so were you. "Without me, your world went on turning." Unlike Neruda, my love feeds on your neglect.

I told myself: if only he knows how much I can love him; if only he can get a feel of being buried in my arms; if only he can hear the music I've written for him. But I can't make you see, feel or hear. In fact, my dear superhero, and alas I admit this: I don't know how to love you.

I confess a pauper such as me can't take you to high places. Neither that I can promise you the stars and the moon, nor the ocean or any worldly treasures. I can never fit your portraiture of handsome and knew nothing about the language of love. What I can only promise, and this I say kneeling, is that I will never hurt you and forever I am devoutly in love with you.

Let your lips
be temple
of my
your eyes
the stars
I gaze
upon each night.
Let me
be your
night wind,
the silence
of your

But am I really so arrogant as to claim to be the key to your happiness? In darkness I wait for you the way dusk waits for dawn. But will this make you feel different? Perhaps it goes with the saying that one cannot give what one cannot possess. And it so happen, my dear superhero, that the things you desire are the things I am deprived of.

As those days went by, I saw the writings on the wall. Only I chose to ignore them, or have them twisted to suit my illusions of you.

Perhaps I can only love you from afar, never getting any nearer. Perhaps I can only watch you desire someone, love someone but me. I hope he writes you songs and poems, and serenade you again and again under the endless sky. With that I shall be the envious clouds, drifting afar, occassionally showering rains heavy with grief. "What does it matter that you did not know that I loved you? The night is shattered and you are not with me."

As closing, allow me to share here the closing song of this 1968 romantic musical film, an English translation of a French piece written by Jacques Charles and company, Mon Homme:

Oh my man I love him so
He'll never know
All my life is just despair
But I don't care
When he takes me in his arms
The world is bright
What's the difference if I say?
I'll go away
When I know I'll come back
on my knees someday
For whatever my man is
I am his

Indeed, yours forever,

The Desole Boy

5 reaction(s):

Anonymous said...

Happened to stumble upon your blog. Going through the exact same thing right now. I have tried countless times to get someone incredibly dear to me to love me. But I am near my absolute limit, and I have already accepted that I cannot control the feelings of my special someone. I made a promise to him last year that he would say yes to me when the calendar says it's the 14th of February again. Alas, I have not been able to.

He has been through a lot, and I wish I could make him realize that I will be both sword and shield to him. Maybe I wasn't good enough. Maybe I am just another chapter in his life. Maybe when I am gone, he will realize that happiness is a choice. I just want him too be ok, even when I am gone. Perhaps in another lifetime, I get to meet him first and we get to do this right.

Thank you for you post.

- Mr. Secretary

Anonymous said...

marse, same feeling.. parang inextract mo ang nasa puso ko haha. huhu.


rudeboy said...

We can't always be Cosette, dear Eponine. And even she had a wretched life.

Nor can all be Christine, poor Mademoiselle Giry. And yet if you knew her ultimate fate, how envious, really, could we be?

But maybe sometimes in love, like life, Browning said it best: "Ah, but a man's reach should exceed his grasp - or what's a heaven for?"


WV: chocolates. Heh.

kalansaycollector said...

with this powerful post, how dare he not.... argggh..

JM said...

a few months ago i wrote a somewhat similar letter to someone who i was hoping to love me back. in my case i made sure he was able to read it. he was thankful, but just that. so i somehow know how you feel.

i think in love everyone is equal. for all have loved and desires to be loved. i wouldn't want to put someone i desire to love me back in a pedestal, nor would i look down on myself just the same. if the love i called out answered in return, mighty fine. but if unanswered, i just leave it as it is, for indeed, no one can control someone else's heart. easier said than done i know, but i have to beat myself to understand that, for it helps keep myself sane in moments of heartbreak.


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