The Chaos of My Words.

For what is it about words, that brings about a rush of emotion, or a loss of time and sense – what is it about words that closes the distance between lovers, that throws away years of togetherness, that reminds friends of a warm embrace on a cold summer’s night? – what is it about words that breaks, makes, destroys, creates, anguishes, tortures, pleasures or even elevates humans. 

Unfortunately, no one writes letters today. They say lucky are those who don’t fall in love with a writer. Apparently, our emotions are stronger in words than they are in person. Words, they create magic. Write to your lover tonight. Let your words find that secret place on his neck, let your words be your lips tonight – let them roam freely. Over his body, let your words leave soft kisses and deep breaths. Leave him shuddering for your touch, but satisfied with your words. Words. They can make your lovers toes curl with pleasure, but also, leave a heart broken in pieces. 
Use words. Let your impeccable knowledge over this language be a warm hug to a friend who is miles away, sipping wine on a cold night. Let your words dance with that lonely girl’s smile tonight, remind her of how her smile twinkles in her eyes. Use words to show the world what you’re unhappy about. Use words, they’re out there, and they’re waiting… aching, eagerly, to be used, over and over again.
With each sentence the words change meaning; the letters, the shapes they form, let them become the all and everything of the person whose reading it. How I wish I had letters to read, and not just write – but then again, someone has to, no? Someone far away needs to be reminded of a lover, someone else may need company on a lonely night, someone else may need someone to wipe away the tears, someone may just need a gentle reminder that I’m missing them. This is what my words shall be used for tonight. Because tonight, my words are aching to reach someone else, but alas, it seems against my better judgement to let that happen – so instead, I’ll use them here. Pour them all out, till I’ve got nothing but my pounding heart left for company.
You ask me what I would write if I could to him? Well, let me tell you. 
My Dearest Gelato, (I would begin. It’s a joke amongst us, I hate gelato; and his personality, if I had to describe it in one word, this would be it) 
We left each other on aching terms. We left each other with almost no choice but to walk away. We left each other. 
I think it’s Kafka who believed that without pain, there can be no love. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not in love with you, maybe not so much as the maybe the idea of being of being your Paprika. Life is too long to have enemies, too short to leave people behind, and even shorter when you start cutting out your friends from it. You were my good luck charm, you were my late night call, you were my karaoke machine, you were my white owl date, you were my awkward driving companion, you were my afternoon in Prague phone call. 
Someone once said, when two adults care for each other, they shouldn’t treat each other like this. The immediate reply, two adults that care for each other shouldn’t have to move on. I’m not sure which side I rest on, and which you.
I’m hurting, and I wish that it did not take everything inside of me to not pick up the phone and ask you to meet me. Don’t act like I mean nothing, don’t love me if you don’t want to, but don’t make me move on from a friendship that became a pillar for me in this city that never sleeps. I’m hurting. And yes, we could have handled this better, and no, your last words make no sense to me – but your words still echo inside of me. Unanswered questions – those are the most difficult to sleep with.
I wish I could express myself the way you do with your songs. It would be easier for you to understand me; my words, they seem to be floating all around me, no wonder they appear hostile and chaotic to you. I have a lot of things I want to say, but nothing’s coming out. 
At this point, I have nothing to express, and no one to express it to. I’m going to lie here, wrapped in the chaos of my words – wondering which ones strung together would be the ones to use to get you back into my life. 
Yours, Paprika. 
That night in Prague when we met in my dreams.

That night in Prague when we met in my dreams.

Maybe it’s best sometimes, to not speak, to avoid using words, and most importantly, to not write a letter to your lover. Sometimes, avoiding a rush of emotions can be relieving. 
For now, here’s Kafka’s letter, written to Felice, it’s the passion and array of emotions in this letter that made my heart wonder why I wasn’t writing tonight. 
Fräulein Felice!
I am now going to ask you a favor which sounds quite crazy, and which I should regard as such, were I the one to receive the letter. It is also the very greatest test that even the kindest person could be put to. Well, this is it: Write to me only once a week, so that your letter arrives on Sunday — for I cannot endure your daily letters, I am incapable of enduring them. For instance, I answer one of your letters, then lie in bed in apparent calm, but my heart beats through my entire body and is conscious only of you. I belong to you; there is really no other way of expressing it, and that is not strong enough. But for this very reason I don’t want to know what you are wearing; it confuses me so much that I cannot deal with life; and that’s why I don’t want to know that you are fond of me. If I did, how could I, fool that I am, go on sitting in my office, or here at home, instead of leaping onto a train with my eyes shut and opening them only when I am with you?

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