Of all the love letters I wrote to her, what impressed me most was Neruda's sentence: "I like that you are silent as if you had disappeared."
Desperate and proud.
On Christmas Eve of my first year in Japan, I opened my mailbox and found a letter:
Hello! I don't know you very well, and you certainly don't know me, but when the school organized outdoor activities that day, you stood in the flock of pigeons, wearing my favorite white shirt, swinging with the wind, pigeons flying, backlit figure, only for this moment's heart. I want to say: "When I write this letter, I like you." I wish you a happy Christmas Eve!
I stood in front of the mailbox and read it again and again, and at that moment, I finally realized that the "thank you" said by the girl who had received my love letter was not just perfunctory. I also want to say "thank you" to this person, but I don't know who she is until the end.
In life, we will meet so many people who are fascinating to us, and there are very few people we can catch. Sometimes we think it is love, and sometimes we think it is just simple appreciation.
The existence of love letters is more like narcissism than admiration itself, the narcissism that affectionate and melancholy late-night, a clear and excited throb of youth. Some people say: "in the end, love can only be regarded as something that cannot be answered, and it is a kind of admiration-the slimmer the hope of seeing love in return, the stronger the desire."
Alan de Bolton said in the Love Notes: "Love letters are tattoos of love, heartbeat moments in the depths of memories."
If I loved you, I would not forget, of course, I still have to go on quietly and say, "it's a beautiful day and the wind is gentle." Can also smile wearily in the setting sun and say: "Life is ordinary, there are no twists and turns and sorrow."
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