A Hammock In Greece

Dear E,

Three twenty four in the morning I am widely alert, simmering in annoyance and anger. For an insomniac let me tell you of a few things that don't work: lukewarm milk, chill out music, channel surfing, counting sheep, deep breathing, foot scrubs, a hot shower, a primer on Differential Calculus, any movie by Isabelle Adjani, Enya, even masturbation. I feel like smashing things, or bursting into frustrated howls, but can't seem to be bothered.

Times like this I wish you are within reach. You tousling my hair and dismissing my outbursts as immature make my breathing steady. More than I'd care to admit your mere presence, even your unblinking silence dissipate my inner storms.

My pursuits are trivial to an outsider but it feeds my burning need to assert my creative streaks. I know the merciless concrete jungle isn't your favored kettle of ginger ale but it is my chosen battlefield. I thrive in it. It feeds me. It makes me potent and every bruise and brush with frustration confirms my persistence and drive.

But you are elsewhere and moments like this make me realize the gravity of my errors. I'd like to imagine you giving me that cocky i-told-you-so smirk, which, in the countless course from past incidents gave you the license to do so but didn't. It would have been easy for me if you did, because it would be a tangible proof that you have always been right and I was a stubborn fool in pursuing this path. But your rich reserves of gentleness is something beyond my understanding.

You must be dreaming, snugly tucked in the warmth of crisp linens and downy pillows, your breathing even and without care while I write this letter suspended between compunction and frustration. Wistfulness clouds my eyes to imagine wrapping my troubled arms around you and let your calmness let its osmotic power nullify my tempestuous nerves.

But it's all there is: wishful thinking. And missing you beyond words.

Let me end this missive with another wish. That one day I'll find the courage to abandon my quixotic insanities and share a hammock with you somewhere in Greece. Just you, me, the Mediterranean breeze, a pitcher of lemon grass iced tea, that unfinished volume of Neruda sonnets.

And our laughter piercing the calmness of the bluest summer sky.

Yours, Loudcloud, still in the throes of despair and discontent.