Love Letter To the Woman of my Dreams 2

By Iweka Kingsley

Dear You, "Love has a face, I'll recognize it when I see it"

I close my eyes and I see you. This feeling is familiar, I recognize it easily. Indeed, if only it were possible to love without injury; fidelity is not enough. The hurt is in the act of possession. We are too small in mind and body to possess another person without pride, or to be possessed without humiliation.


I try in vain to permit myself to be pessimistic about this feeling. Think of this as an attempt to create a fabric of human destiny with the object of making you happy in the end, giving you peace and rest at last; and that the price to be paid is the torture of one tiny creature, and to found this end on its unavenged tears.

Look upon my ebony face, behold the expression of somber emotion, of ruthless strength, of craven pleasure, of an intense and hopeless desire...the passion!

There is no comfort with this feeling, only familiarity. I see the sign boldly written: "those who go beneath the surface do so at their own peril". I dare to go beyond the marked line, unsure of what I'll find. The courage of the man that has the guts to sell his soul for love.

I know every step may not be fruitful. I know there will stretch out before me an ever-lengthening, ever ascending, ever improving path. I know I may never get to the end of the journey. But this, this endlessness, so far from discouraging, only adds to the joy and glory of the climb.

I know there is the chance of labouring long to build a heaven, only to find it populated with horrors, yet I choose to work as if I live in the early days of a glorious heaven. This is the true and impossible story of my very great love. I take this plunge into the unknown, blindly, and hope that beyond the outlook of horror I will fall into the arms of an angel and find some comfort in that heart of gold, stained with coal and time.