I’ve thought about what you said in your previous letter. I’ve thought of little else. You asked if this love was worth my soul. If it was worth me not being who I really am.
I’ve tortured myself with that thought for days now. But the answer is quite simply: I don’t know who I am. So how could I be unhappy being someone else? I have this idea of who I would like to be, but it’s a blurry shadow at best. Some days, it’s clearer than others. I see her sometimes. She roams the fog that settles over my dreams. She’s truly beautiful. A stark contrast to reality, I think. I know you’ll say differently. I wonder how long it will take before things fall apart. Even the best actor forgets their lines every now and again. I’m bound to mess up, and then that fourth wall will come crashing down. Because right now, I’m jumping from stage to stage, desperate to please whatever audience is in front of me. I think I’m doing pretty well so far.
But I’m exhausted.
I’m tired of constantly trying to be anyone else except myself. I love them all. I really do. But my heart quakes at the thought of showing them who I really am. This raw, bitter side I keep telling myself will go away eventually. Because if she was meant to go away, she probably never should have materialised in the first place. Do regular people have these thoughts too? Look who I’m asking. It’s a full moon tonight. Perhaps she’s the root of my lucid dreaming. Let’s blame it on the moon.
My insanity seems more romantic that way.
7th August 2017