I am reduced to a thing that wants Virginia. I composed a beautiful letter to you in the sleepless nightmare hours of the night, and it has all gone: I just miss you, in a quite simple desperate human way… I miss you even more than I could have believed; and I was prepared to miss you a good deal. So this letter is just really a squeal of pain. It is incredible how essential to me you have become…
I shan’t make you love me any the more by giving myself away like this —But oh my dear, I can’t be clever and stand-offish with you: I love you too much for that. Too truly. You have no idea how stand-offish I can be with people I don’t love… But you have broken down my defences. And I don’t really resent it.
However I won’t bore you with any more…
Please forgive me for writing such a miserable letter.
~ Vita Sackville-West. Letter To Virginia Woolf. January 21, 1926.
More than a decade of pledges and promises and plans. More than a decade of words spoken and written. Words spoken and written not just by the boy I first fell in love with but by the man he grew up to be… The man I could have so easily fallen for yet again, the man I was willing to wait for, the man - the only man - I wanted to share my forever with…
I guess this man changed. He changed into this you who could transform your past promises to me into lies by ending entirely not only our relationship but any possibility of a future together. This you who could then leave me to figure this out on my own… It’s that last bit that hurts most. You
could not would not did not even tell me.
It isn’t time, but you who has taken my tomorrows and turned them into yesterdays.
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