Is it possible, dear friends, that I am not brave enough for love?
This love that is chosen, and yet not provided?
Do I give hope and then dash dreams?
Do I trust hope and fall endlessly with hopes demise?
Is it plausible, dear one, that I could suffer a cowardly love?
One given and received not by its power, its humanity, its consuming nature?
but for its convenience, safety and lust?
Would I be so wretched?
Dear Friends, I know not my capacity for love. For that I rely completely on you. I hope you are pleased with your burden. I hope it tastes like brie and crackers, cold broccoli salad with apple slices, a glass of deeply red shiraz, finished with moscato and dark chocolate.
Dear One, know this: I will not suffer a cowardly love. I will choose this lonely life if I cannot burn with passion with you. Be safe in the knowledge that if you are that cowardly, you will not have to suffer through the weeping in bed during late night showings of The Reader. Fear the knowledge that I have never proven my bravery, and possibly never will. I know this is my greatest fear: that I will never know my capacity for a passionate love... it is my hope that you know this capacity of mine, but it is my very soul's journey that I know this love in me.