Young Writers Society

When I first met you I was so struck by your simplicity and by your sweetness of speech and manner that it became difficult for me to shut you out of my mind. You were rather clumsy and shy and quiet and acted as if you had spent the last ten years of your life locked up in a library - hardly the kind of girl any man dreams of. But sometimes it is the quiet ones who attract the most attention. In life, there is a constant whirlwind of motion and sound all around, and then there is the quiet one, the eye of the storm.

To me, your heart was a mysterious garden with very high walls. My initial goal was to get you to allow a tiny crack to form in the walls through which only a trickle of myself could pass and form a river of love and happiness for you. I'll admit that I never thought to encounter such a strange profusion of flowers within your garden. There are people who are generic. They make generic responses and they expect generic answers. They live inside a box and they think people who don't fit into their box are weird. Generic people are like genetically-manipulated plants growing inside a laboratory. I like weird. Conformity bores. Granted, most writers I know (including myself) are a bit strange, But then again, you'd have to be: to spend hundreds and hundreds of hours sitting in front of a computer screen staring at lines of information is extremely tedious. More like a computer programmer. And no matter how cool the Matrix made looking at code seem, computer programmers are even weirder than authors. A garden should make you feel you have entered privileged space-and this is how I felt the first time you allowed me into yours.

If tending to the garden of the heart was to be compared to the art of writing, as a gardener you must put a twist on the landscape: in doing so, you had turned your prose into something nearer poetry. Generic people with genetically-manipulated plants growing inside a laboratory, have ugly, indistinguishable faces, like droids, all covered in makeup. But you have the type of beauty impossible to wipe away with a wet cloth. Your eyes alone are like mermaids in the sunshine, promulgating the exotic beauty from within your innermost being. The best part of your beauty is that which no picture can express. The beauty of a woman is not in a facial mole, but true beauty in a Woman is reflected in her soul. It is the caring that she lovingly gives, the passion that she knows. Generic people with genetically modified plants are ignorant and intolerant by design.

Imagine life a lotus, the most beautiful flower, whose petals open one by one. But it will only grow in the mud. In order to grow and gain wisdom, first you must have the mud - the obstacles of life and its suffering because the mud speaks of the common ground that humans share, no matter what our stations in life. Whether we have it all or we have nothing, we are all faced with the same obstacles: sadness, loss, illness, dying and death. If we are to strive as human beings to gain more wisdom, more kindness and more compassion, we must have the intention to grow as a lotus and open each petal one by one.

This analogy is one you can understand. Despite the tragedy of what they have to go through in life, you remain the most compassionate person I know worth knowing, and the one that often becomes a friend for the broken hearted, forgotten and the misunderstood. You are the most honest and person I have ever met. The first time we ever met, you captivated my heart, and the more I tried to forget you the more I began to think of you, until it dawned upon me that I have fallen in love with you.

You are not perfect—I am not either, and the two of us may never be perfect together, but but you can and admit to being human and making mistakes, and I will hold onto you and give you the most I can. You may not be thinking about me every second of the day, but you have given me the part of you that you know I can break—your heart. I think you have a brain where channels are blocked in the mind, from the day.

When you lie down in the blackness of night, forgotten remnants rush to your mind, creeping slowly appear in your dreams and thoughts. In those blackest of nights, my love will be a small thunderstorm that keeps changing directions. You can change direction but the thunder storm will chase you. You can turn again, but the storm will adjust. Over and over this will play out, like some dance just before dawn, never leaving you. My love is forever, and I am always waiting patiently for a chance to show how deeply I feel. You are not alone.