I did not start this with the typical letter form, it does not start with dear Caroline, it never will… in fear that it might restrain what I am about to pen down for you… maybe, and for the most part, I fail at truly portraying this into a neatly packaged form. So, while you attempt to read this, you can have the full freedom to tailor it to your liking, this could be my letter to you, it could be a torn page from my journal, or it could merely be you listening attentively to what my heart whispers upon paper.
You see, my mind has been gnawing at me to write…write something, anything, and maybe it isn’t just my mind, maybe it’s my soul, or maybe it’s the permutation of all of my senses. Whatever they may be, I had to set my fingers free, tips dancing on the keyboard as they choreographed a neatly written account in your honor. We both know, however, that the only thing that matters to you is that despite my fingers well refined rhythmic dance as it writes this, all you’ll care about is needing to polish my nails. They are a mess, they always will be even when trying to praise your worthiness to the world and by God I hope you will excuse me for it.
You see, maybe I know you too well, or maybe not at all, maybe your snoring while asleep or while even laughing is what adds up to your charm. I don’t know… I never will, but to me, it surely does the trick. Or, maybe the fact that you have myriad versions of laughter is your way of tackling monotony, maybe; perhaps, you are too genuine, too unique that you fail to keep at just merely one tone of laughter, maybe you are too good to an extent that when you break into laughter, you break everyone’s world with it into a realm of surrealism, maybe when you do that, they no longer are captive to this mundane world, maybe you set them free and make them realize that only a Goddess like you can truly open their eyes to such beauty and splendor… and maybe I say this, because this is exactly what you have done to me.
I know you too well, or do I? I know that I can see gleaming innocence in your eyes and smile when you come across culinary shows, and your heart prances with sheer joy when you speak of delicately refining your nails. You speak of them, as an artist would of summer’s haze. I know that you and cooking are too inseparable, that every time you would step into the kitchen as if on a lovers date, you would leave with burn marks on your arm and if that isn’t true love, then I don’t know what is. I know that like your very bad driving skills, having no sense of proportion when it comes to parking, you fail miserably at expressing your feelings. But you see, that’s perfectly okay, Da Vinci did not trace a smile on Mona Lisa’a face, there is no sense of evident expression, yet somehow she manages to capture everyone’s heart. I know that despite your undying love for cooking, you manage to swiftly carry out an affair with your bed, you love sleeping more than anything. Maybe I know that you give out the best hugs in the world and you balance things out by exhibiting horrible grammar and punctuation, maybe I know that it’s all really okay, because despite it all, you still manage to admit that.
Maybe you can ignore my every word, like how I am having difficulties wrapping my head around you, like how I know for a fact that God perfected you, your dimple –You have one, I know… I still think you have two but the other isn’t as visible- your smile, your eyes, your honeycomb skin or even your scent… Maybe you can ignore the fact that despite your mystique, you still manage to be nothing short of a breathtaking person akin to something personified in fairytales, that when you space out, you tear up and that you tear up almost all the time.
So yes, maybe I know you too well, or maybe none at all… maybe I choose to pretend that I do, because voyagers take pride in knowing unexplored realms, and I take pride in knowing you…
Dear Caroline, I end this in such a manner.