𝖮𝖼𝗍𝗈𝖻𝖾𝗋 𝟣𝟩, 𝟣𝟫𝟦𝟨
𝖣’𝖠𝗋𝗅𝗂𝗇𝖾,
𝖨 𝖺𝖽𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎, 𝗌𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗍𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗍.
I know how much you like to hear that—I wrote it not only because you like it—I write it because it makes me warm, all over inside, to write it to you.
It indeed has been long since I wrote to you—almost two years. But knowing you, I’m sure you’ll excuse me. You know how I am, my dear, so stubborn and realistic; and I thought there was no sense to writing.
But now I know, my darling wife, that it is right to do what I have delayed in doing, for I have done so much in the past. I want to tell you I love you. I want to love you. I always will love you.
If I were to be honest, I find it hard to understand, in my mind, what it means to love you after you are dead, yet I still want to comfort and take care of you—and I want you to love and take care for me as well.
I want to have problems to discuss with you, I want to do little projects with you, still. Never had it crossed my mind we could do that, to learn to make clothes together—or learn Chinese—or to get a movie projector.
Can’t I do something now? No. I am alone without you, my darling. You were the ideal woman, general instigator of all our wild adventures.
When you were sick, you worried you could not give me something that you wanted to, and thought I needed. You needn’t have worried. There was no real need, for I have loved you in so many ways, and I can see it clearly now, even more true.
You can give me nothing now, yet I love you so, that you stand in my way of loving anyone else—but at the same time, I want you there.
You, dead, are so much better than anyone else alive.
I know, you will assure me that I am foolish, that you want me to have full happiness, and you don’t want to stand in my way. I’ll bet you are surprised to know I don’t even have a girlfriend (except you, sweetheart) after two years.
But you can’t help it, darling, nor can I—I don’t understand it, for I have met many girls, very nice ones, even—I don’t want to remain alone—but in two or three meetings they all seem ashes.
You only are left to me. You are real.
My darling, my wife, I do adore you.
My wife, whom I loved dearly, is dead.
Rich.
P.S. Please excuse me for not mailing this, my darling, I don’t know your new address.
Samael
Posted first in @SHllXUN
In rememberance of Scarlet Hellstrøm
[Wednesday, November 11th, 2020. 04:09 AM.]
W/N: this writing's origin is a letter from Richard Feynman’s letter to his departed wife, paraphrased accordingly to the writer’s interpretations.