On Letters in a Stranger’s Diary
I don’t have anything clever or spectacular to say… but I suppose that’s true for most of life really, though, isn’t it? Sometimes life is magic and the rest of the time life is just navigating your way through repetitive and often banal tasks and obstacles. We’re pedestrians and kings on Saturdays from two to four. Sometimes I worry you’ll take off your crown and realize that I’m just another repetitive and often banal pedestrian. I hope you don’t. Maybe I hope you do. Maybe that’s love, being bored together. Maybe love is cutting scrap paper together. Or shopping for calculators. Or waiting in line at the post office, or discovering blisters, or writing letters you’re not around to read. I love you exquisitely, in all the mundane hours of all the mundane days. Time passes incorrectly without you. It’s faster, and feels heavier with a strange sort of emptiness. You have this really unique ability to make even the most monotonous moments seem like the introductory montage to a Terrence Malick film. I hope I can do this for you, too. I don’t know if I do. I worry if I do. I don’t want you to settle.
I love you more,
P.S. Sorry for writing in your journal-