Believing in the kami makes the kami exist. I will not quote Neruda because he’s to you what Coelho is to me; tautology and wishful thinking, and I think it’s one hell of a deplorable thought. I mustn’t serenade because everything I sing may or may not become the next earworm. I would prefer not to quote Virgil or Horace’s convoluted Latin sentiments of the sublime like Amore omnia vincit or In aeternum te amabo; because you once told me that I like big words to which I respond; babes! you’re definitely witnessing the downfall of a posh grandiloquent. I refuse to go batshit unhinged on interesting trivia, like who died and decided that a group of bats should be called a cauldron? I also think that it’s frowned upon to write this in a sans-serif font and not have my conscience eating at me.
However, I am writing a tangent because that’s how we like each other, rhizomatic and fluid a not-so-gay amount (no offense to arborescent plants). I would like to regard all that I pen to you as an earnest endeavor to art; Ars ad te. Like the kami, I gain epiphany, passion, and verity from you. Our own belief and reverence of what we have, gives our relationship the vigor it needs. I think of what you said the other day quite too often, when you came to grips with the thought that to you, I am almost like the craft of your mind. And in all honesty, I couldn’t agree more. Because to me, you’re the embodiment of every synthesis I made based on every girl. It’s like when Pygmalion sculptured Galatea and fell in love with her or when Don Quixote fell he
ad over heels for Dulcinae, a beautiful peasant who may have been just like a chivalrous sculptor of a noble lady in the mind of El caballero andante. I would never have imagined me, being this personal and convivial with someone. A year for god’s sake. A year of gaiety, laughter, patience, amenability, and most importantly; the willingness to change for each other. A year of peachy food, refined cinephile dates, book hauls, beer and reading at le livre, lots of conversation re sunscreens and whatnot.
Life with you would be quite the life I manifested to the kami. And if Shinto is lenient enough, this could work like no other. I love you not like Pygmalion, or Alonso Quixano, or even Bergerac’s idealistic romance, but I’d die for you like Dido, and steal a blue French horn for you like that chic professor from HIMYM
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