I was thinking this afternoon about the man who introduced you to me. What would I say to him now, if we could meet?
Did he have any idea what he was doing?
Had he given any thought to what was going to happen to me? How the rest of my life, every facet of it, would be shaped by that moment our paths then crossed? Did he understand I would lose everything I treasure because the only constant value left for me to live for is to find you again?
As I look back now -- in all fairness -- I think he did know. . . only I thought that I knew better.
For instance, I remember him telling me at the time that if I had any love other than a love for you that you would never truly be mine. Only what did I know -- or care -- back then? Nothing was any more real to me than what I wanted. . . and have you I would when and where it pleased me. How was I to know?
And it isn't that I'm trying to blame my trusted friend for my having lost my heart to you. That would be like finding fault with someone for offering you his finest wine -- a rare vintage that, for its many subtle qualities, suddenly made all other wines known to you seem lifeless and without bouquet. All else aside, who can be blamed for what amounts to a change in my taste?
But this line between my heart's insatiable thirst and its sweet fulfillment in you is gradually becoming lost to me. I don't seem to know any more where one begins and the other ends -- or if there ever was any real difference between the two? And maybe herein lies the answer to my original question concerning my old friend and whether he knew what he was doing on that fateful Day.
It occurs to me now, given my own predicament, that he was already your consort: as much a slave then to wanting to share his love for you -- with me -- as I now find myself enslaved to write these letters to you about my heart in your keeping. Each of us doing what we must within what your love demands; both fulfilling ourselves through fulfilling the hidden design of your unconquerable love.