Never Enough

'Dreaming Nudes' by Alfred Gockel

I write too much for a blog. Or so I think. What is to write too much? Have I said all the things I want to tell you? Am I ready to put my pen down and don’t say another word to you, not ever again? No, I’m not. So I haven’t said too much. I haven’t said enough. It will never be enough. Not all my words can be enough.

I may say the wrong thing. I may say something you don’t want to hear. You may ask me not to say it again, not to say it anymore. But what can I do? You are also responsible for this. You also made me love. I didn’t love you alone. You were part of this once. What have since changed? For you it seems simple, you have mentioned your reasons more than once. Not so simple for me, I’m afraid. I like to see myself as a simple person, but maybe I’m a very complex one, very complicated. But I’m not simple, just practical. Practical and complex. Is that possible? I am what I am.

So what have changed, then? For me. Everything and nothing. Everything when I remember we are not together, and that I can’t touch you, hug you, kiss you, or even call you. Even emailing you seems more and more absurd, as you go not answering. I said today, ‘I sent another email. I simple can’t be silent and quiet.’ The answer was, ‘are you waiting for an answer?’ ‘No.’ ‘So, why do you write? We write to get an answer.’ ‘I don’t know, so she can know I’m still alive.’ No, it wasn’t something so melodramatic. It must have been something closer to ‘so to say what’s happening... Nothing when I can still feel you perfume embracing me, your voice comforting me, your touch making me knees shake.

The truth is that I always hope for an answer. Even here, I wonder if some day I will have a word back from you.

But am I writing too much? Sometimes I am afraid I will run out of words, that I wouldn’t know what to say to you. It’s seems I’m almost writing an entire chapter of a book. And finished the chapter, what would happen? Will I be able to keep on going? What is the point of all this? What’s the point of yelling when there is no one to come and rescue us? When there is no one to listen? When no one cares? So I won’t be mad. I am writing for an audience of one, but that one has left. I am speaking alone. I know there is no one listening, and yet I keep on doing it. We see a person talking to himself on the street and we take him for a mad one. How am I different from the person who walks gesturing and speaking aloud and to anyone else but himself?

We are exactly the same. Except that I don’t even have anyone to tease me. That I don’t even have a voice, also. My words are silent words. My words will never be heard. I may die tomorrow and you wouldn’t know I’ve died loving you, and missing the sound of your voice.

I’m a scientist. I have an obsession for explaining things. Is this a cause or a consequence? Being a scientist. Or having an obsession for explaining.

What I write in excess, I speak in scarcity. Maybe I will worry and try to be briefer next time. And in compensation, I will try to make my day-to-day speech more affluent by adding a word or two into the conversation.

I also have an obsession for perfection. Have you ever noticed? I’m a scientist. Is this a cause? Is it a consequence? Nothing to do probably.

"If I did not die, ever! And eternally sought and achieved the perfection of things!"

Maybe there isn’t such a thing as a perfect thing.

What is perfection?

For me.

The way your smile fulfils my heart.

Isn’t that perfection?

It is all I seem to need in life.

If that isn’t perfection, I may as well die tomorrow.

Or go to bed now, close my eyes, and have you kiss me goodnight and hug me to sleep.