I love you,
In a way not too distinguishble from my love of old dead things.I have wrapped you up in nothing but the fondest memories of your more amiable qualities and made you up like a real boy in my fake little world.
Sometimes I can talk myself into thinking that its charming somehow all the bad parts; they give you character, even though I scarce allow them to alter mine. The actual grimy dust and decay, that part of what you are I attribute to age and time and to a lesser extent a little neglect. I think of it as nothing that a little polishing can't fix.
The one thing I cant really fix is the death, which I figure at least accounts for your immortality. I think it gives you something much valued in our age. You are timeless, albeit mummified, a teenage boy stuck in a grown mans spirit(or is that the other way around?),set in preservative brain juice and surely only waiting that lighting strike so that for a milli second I can say that I was there when you felt an ounce of anything. These are all things that bring me joy.
Time has helped much to bring us together, it has led to the fruition of all my mad ideas and I can now stand here head held high (even whilst kneeling) and speak to my own creation of all our glorious fake history in a manner that is so perfectly sincere that my own ears can do nothing but percieve it as a truth.
I love you...undoubtably so. I also love books and many of those too are questionable. But the love of books and the love of people is quite different. I am free to love all the books I want (and do) and never worry that they betray a false sense of anything. I cannot love you in the state you are in, indifferent to my existence that my feelings could never, not even after much consideration, lead you to alter your pages. Thus you remain believing that it was my duty to forgive for harm done willingly to a heart placed under your mercy.That your existence in any form in my world was to be looked upon as a grand sign of charity! That I deserved to do it all on my knees!Oh the Blasphemy!
To continue as if nothing were changed, as if I could still hold water instead of being a useless vessel is what I can only call a titanic mistake. We were bound to sink and like everything that does sink, become ghosts of the seas of regret, repine, nostalgia or whatever else that it all encompasses. Me, forever tending to those memories that showed the most promise, hoping for something that never existed and you...well, simply never existing.