Dear Anamchara,

Countless times, I have thought of addressing you as mine, of writing the words "My Dear Anamchara" in the salutation instead. Yet each time I tried, my pen stopped, the nib quivering to continue further.

Can I even call you mine? When all I know is your name and your profession, as well as a few shared interests that strengthened my connection to you, can I address you as such?

Mine... Even the word has a strange possessiveness.

I do not wish to own you, nor do I want to possess you. All I want is to know you and hold on to the hope that somehow and someday, you will know me, too.

I have already taken the liberty of addressing you as a soulmate, and I don't think I should go further than that. Calling you mine would be a line I dare not cross, a barrier that should remain between us for eternity.

But isn't it strange that I can not call you mine, and yet all my thoughts, words, heart, and soul gravitate toward you? Almost as if every fragment of my existence is somehow possessed by the very concept of you, constantly in orbit, blurring the lines between imagination and reality.

I have thought about you repeatedly such that I've formed my perception of you which may or may not be close to the truth. This thought is exactly what prevents me from calling you mine because the version of you that I hold in my heart is one I dreamt up myself.

How close you are to that version? And if not, then pray do not tell me how far it is from your reality. Do not tell me and let me live in this illusion forever that somehow I could see the real you beneath the layers that shroud your spirit.

Perhaps this is why I'm hesitant of ever crossing paths with you in this life. Despite yearning to stand as close to you as I possibly could, I fear that my perception would shatter and I will be forced to come to terms with a person who would seem more of a stranger.

I have dreamt you up with my eyes wide open. How can I let that vision fade?

It is inevitable. The man I've thought you out to be might not even exist for you are such a master of donning one character after another and pouring your soul into them. Despite being shadow puppets, these characters seem more alive than the man behind the mask.

Have I dreamt up another character, an interpretation of my deepest desires that somehow hardened in a mold that looked like you? And if so, will you don it like a cloak, all but a flight of fancy, resting over your frame for just the briefest of moments before you have to discard it for yet another mask, yet another disguise?

All these questions, assumptions, and speculations keep me from pursuing you as I fear it would shatter the hall of mirrors I've kept myself encaged in. Right now, I can see you in each mirror, each reflection embodying a character that you have played or breathed life into. But if they were all to shatter, revealing the artist and not the muse, would I feel the same for you, or would my longing be fragmented in each shard of glass that once held your reflection?

These thoughts harrow me up, making me question myself and ponder on the depth of this connection I have dreamt up with you. When I look for the answers to these questions, all I am met with are paradoxes.

Yes, I may be in love with you. But no, I do not love you the way a woman might love a man—an emotion tainted with passion, desire or any physical afflictions. I may be taken by your beauty to the point of capturing it on my canvas, but I do not want this beautiful face to be so close that I melt in the heat of your tempestuous eyes.

I might spend the rest of my life writing for you, but I am terrified of ever having to voice these words in your presence. I may compose a poem describing you and sing your praises all day long, but I am afraid of the moment my voice might utter your name and you might be close enough to hear it.

Simply put, my feelings contradict each other, and I fail to explain what goes on in my heart and soul when it comes to you. I keep you close like a secret, yet I fear I might disclose you in moments of weakness.

This thought alone makes me want to hold the perception of you deep within my heart, not baring it to any other soul but yours. But when will I ever get the chance to share this dream with you?

Possibly never.

So I keep this beautiful dream hidden in these pages, each word serenading you until the well of my words might run dry. I keep these thoughts, longings, poetry, and prose confined in my heart and soul, only pouring them out on paper when it becomes impossible to keep them captive.

When the cage of my heart seems to burst open with all these unspoken words, I let my pen take hold and watch the words spill from my very fingertips, dancing across the pages in a trail of ink.

I won't ever say these words out loud, I might never let another soul hear them from my voice. But I simply can't abandon these emotions that yearn to pour out of me each time my thoughts seek your direction. And so I write and encage my words in these letters, stitch them in the deepest folds of my heart, and craft a lock over them that has no key.

Sealed in my heart, the essence of these thoughts is pumped through every cell of my body, coursing through me like the blood in my veins. Like a garden taking root in the fertile soils of my existence, I watch these dreams grow from buds to blossoms, enveloped by fresh evergreen leaves, as this tree of flightless fancies becomes more real than the vision it sprouted from.

Someday, this garden may wither but I try my best not to let it dry out. Not on my watch. Dutifully, I keep watering it with more words, channeling the stream of my thoughts only for you.

Thus, the thoughts of you are unspoken, unheard, but never unloved.

Faithfully,

A Hopeless Romantic.

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