Lenore, I have written this letter a thousand times. Maybe I’ll write it a thousand times more before it becomes the letter that you deserve. Incidentally, in the previous seven iterations of this letter I wrote the same first two sentences. And in the previous six iterations I wrote the same first three sentences. And in the previous five iterations I wrote — wait.
Lenore, I have written this letter a thousand times. Maybe I’ll write it a thousand times more before it becomes the letter that you deserve. I'm trying. This is the first iteration of the letter that I've written in which the previous sentence wasn’t cynical/ironic/self-referentially clever. Postponing irony until the fourth sentence is a serious feat for me, Lenore—almost as serious as postponing self-referential — wait.
Lenore, I have written — wait.
I can’t do this. I haven’t written this letter a thousand times, Lenore. I was just writing that to try to create an interesting rhetorical foundation for what would have been a brilliant piece of non-literary prose-poetry. But I don’t care about literature right now. I care about you. Incidentally, perhaps this unexpected honesty provides an even more interesting rhetorical foundation for what will be an even more brilliant piece of non-literary prose-poetry. Was that ironic? I didn’t mean it to be. I’m just trying to be honest, Lenore. There, that wasn’t ironic. But that was self-referential. And now this is definitely self-referential and maybe ironic as well. I’m trying, Lenore. I’m really trying. You have no idea how hard it is for me not to write a sentence considering whether or not I really am trying by writing “I’m really trying.” I’m really trying, Lenore. Or how hard it is for me not to write a sentence considering how hard it is for me not to write — wait.
I can’t do this. What do you want from me, Lenore? You’re killing me. This is real. This is not cynical. This is not ironic. You are forcing me to kill myself by not being myself. But can’t you see that I’m trying? Fuck. This is not ironic. Jesus Christ. Fuck. Fuck you. I wanted to write “Fuck You!” but the exclamation mark made it look silly. Fuck. Fuck! This is not a shield, Lenore. I’m fucking dying. Fuck! FUCK! — wait.
Wait. Wait. Wait.
Ok. Can you see that I’m trying, Lenore? Do you care? Don’t you care that I can write “Do you care?” without writing a self-referentially, ironic — wait.
Ok. Can you see that I’m trying, Lenore? Do you care? I care. I care enough not to write what you know I want to write right now. Can’t you see that I care? I’m crying, Lenore.
Ok. I’m leaving now. I can’t write anything more.1
Wait. I need to write something more. I’m listening, Lenore. I’m trying, I’m feeling, I’m dying, I’m believing, I’m crying, and I’m listening. I hope your way of thinking can affect mine. Maybe it will save me.
This is what I wanted to write: Is trying enough?
________
1 At least let me be cynical/ironic/self-referentially clever in my footnotes. You can’t expect me to go cold-turkey. I wanted to say that I actually did write this letter a thousand times. And I will write it a thousand times more if I have to. And if I still can’t write the words that you deserve, I’ll make my letters into a fleet of paper-airplanes and fly them through the hallway, past your desk, through the window and into the dumpster. And maybe you will reach out and grab one. And if you grab this one, Lenore, then you will know that I – wait.
How can a man write “I love you” without being ironic?
