Letter to the Artist

Dear Artist!

I hope you'll understand at least one sentence contained here. No, you won't understand a thing, because this is my world, my matrix, and I won't give it to anyone. I'll throw myself into it and remain there, alone and happy. And do you know what I'll miss in it? Well, guess what. Yes, yes, you. Don't write to me that you retire to your eternal rest at night, please don't write, because you know perfectly well that surviving without you would be equivalent to me vegetating in this world. Even though you don't love me, I know perfectly well that you are one of the reasons for my existence. Every morning I wake up with the thought that you're somewhere out there, that you sometimes remember me. It's nice, really. No, contrary to appearances, I'm not in love with you. At least not in love the way people fall in love. Because that's something else. You attract me, I don't know if you realize it. Maybe, maybe not. There's something about you I'd like to steal and never give it to anyone else. Sometimes I look at you... I think you're quite cool, you know? I love you in my own way. The way an aristocracy, or rather an artist, loves.

I'd like you to read this letter one day. No matter what would happen, how you would feel. I'd say out loud, "I'm not interested," even though I'd know perfectly well it was a stupid lie because I want to know how you feel every second. No, that was a lie too. I want to know all your thoughts about me.

You hugged me once, remember? And more than once. No one has ever hugged me like that; I've never felt such a pleasant thrill, you know? And I'll tell you, I wouldn't want it to happen often, because true pleasure is pleasure when it happens once in a while. Pleasure has to be a change. But that's not important in this paragraph. You know... And then, when you hugged me, I felt a relief I'd never felt in my life. Even though I was sitting on the grass, I was sad, I felt bad. And you, without unnecessary words or ceremony, embraced me, just like that. And I guess I can say that I fell in love with you (but remember, in my own way, not like most people). I wanted to stay in that state forever, but I knew it wouldn't be... Well, you know. Pleasure becomes routine.

Even though you don't always understand what I'm saying, what I want to tell you, you still dwell in my cold heart, though you'll never warm it. Somewhere far away, there's someone else, someone who belongs to both you and me. She was cold too, but you, with your warmth, made her someone completely different. And I know it will be like this forever. And you know why? Because you can't lose me over something as stupid as love. Because, you know... You love me one day, hate me the next. And I'm like a diamond; you can't afford to have me (although once you have me, you're afraid you'll lose it any day, so it's better not to risk it), but at the same time, you gaze at my sparkle with fondness. You know you have to settle for the cubic zirconia you've come to love no matter what. You've always strived for it, and now you can't lose it just because you saw a sparkling diamond. A diamond can easily be lost; someone might steal it, but a cubic zirconia, not so much. You love her for being with you. You love her like everyone else. Simply. Sweet and rosy.

I'm ending this letter because sentiments are starting to flutter in my heart, you know? And I can't just melt away like that. Go to your cubic zirconia. Go just to be with her. But remember, someone loves you. They love you with such a false love, a very cold love, so outstanding and individual.

Your Artist, who will always remember that you exist.