I won’t take much time in briefing what this post is about. Title should do that. This is purely my imagination, I was not feeling very poetic hence, I came up with this:-
It’s my imagination of what a good, good morning text should be. It’s from a boys perspective. Meant for a girl. So, let’s get to it already!
My dear someone,
You are the single loveliest thing in my life. I know not know how I am able to function and go about my daily business while this fact still holds, when in all sincerity I should never be able to stop marvelling at it.
I am a fool. I am a man. This perhaps is the greatest sign that man is a diseased creature.
You are an angel, and I am able to forget it somehow. It is absurd. You are the greatest thing that has ever happened to me, and it is quite plainly mere happenstance.
You could have been anyone’s. I did not earn this privilege, but the least I can do is to attempt to do so now, years after the fact.
You are a beauty. You are a wonder. I do not know how anybody like you can be. I do not know what long series of unlikely occurrences would need to take place for the world at large to be rendered perfect enough, pristine enough for your entry into it.
I am a fool. You are amazing. I do not know or understand why you love me. I cannot let myself question it. It must remain the one thing I do not question. It must remain my token of faith.
You are proof that divinity is not just a word. You are my illusion. You must remain my last illusion. You are a fool. You are afflicted by the same shortcomings that humans are. You question my devotion to you. You worry if I will ever change. I can hardly blame you, when I myself see now that it is a miracle that I can ever breathe at all, let alone live my life, without halting abruptly every other instant to be astounded that I am permitted, somehow, to live the same life you are, and that I have a life with you to look forward to, and yet somehow I do it.
You are a fool. My devotion is not a result of our relationship, and is not affected by the same petty happenings. My devotion to you is as primal to me as my reason, and indeed may be a result of it. I need only look at you to know what is most important to me, and to realise that much like heroes and poets of old, I have found at least one of my callings, and it is to make you happy.
This much is a simple duty, a return for all the pleasure I feel like doing nothing more than placing my hand on your lower back. You are a gift to man. You are an impossibility. You are far and away too perfect. You are simply the most wondrous human being I have ever had the privilege of learning the existence of.
You were born in the wrong age and around the wrong people. You are for art, and for expression. You are the inspiration that drives men to scale mountains and lay foundations and touch hearts with mere sentences. You should have been the muse of a hundred able artists, but you have settled on one.
Who the hell am I to question mankind’s debt to you? I owe my life to you, and every bit of happiness I have felt in the past times to you, but these are trifles.
I cannot imagine ever having had my share of simply looking at you, much less ever having loved you enough. I cannot imagine beginning to explain to you what your true worth is.
This is not even close. This is a whim. This is a travesty.
I am a fool.
You are an absolute miracle.