Lale

Good evening, Lale.  Tonight I am writing to you, and I think it's the first time that I've ever done so.

You frighten me.  Let me state that as if you don't know it already.  You've always frightened and enthralled me in some way I cannot understand.  You are the sublime and unknown.  I can give you as many traits as I want but I know deep down that you - like Colleen - are above my control and reach, and I am almost a humble observer to your existence.

I know and remember as a historical fact that I made you the same time I made Colleen - only a few seconds after her.  She was the fearsome little girl with eyes red as blood and lips as black as lead.  You were her teddy bear with the teeth like knives, hiding the figure of the fearsome man that had pervaded her.  Right after I imagined her, I imagined the bear in her arms, and tenaciously the two of you have clung to me and survived.

You feel surprised - no?  Yes?  I do remember, still.  I haven't forgotten your roots, just as I haven't forgotten hers.  I gave her an angelic counterpart almost as soon as I gave her the demonic one, knowing full well that she was to have light in her, all along.  You, however, stayed relatively the same, regardless of how I've tried to change you.

I just never discovered you properly, not until as of late.  And if you'd let me - I can feel you smiling, is that a yes, then?  Don't laugh at my insecurity, you horribly cryptic man, you know I cannot read you - I'll keep discovering you, the nuances, the subtle, everything.

Thank you for protecting me.  I know it's you.  Whenever I cannot hold myself, that state of melancholy fullness, the feeling as if someone is there - I know it's you.  Colleen is the numbness that takes over me when I'm exhausted, and the warmth that comes from me believing in something ethereal that loves me.  But you, you are the shell around my heart that keeps it from smashing to pieces.  I feel you giving me a cynical look, and I don't know if I'm right or not.  Jeez, why can't you take a compliment?

I have done far worse to you than to her.  Even she knows this.  Colleen knows full well that I gave her light, and I have kept you strictly within the bounds of darkness and despair.  And yet you don't resent me; you're too strong for that.  My ultimate scapegoat and ultimate shield.  The one that consoles me without words, without scrambling to make me feel better because you have higher expectations of me than that.  The one who shakes his head at me tiredly, because you're used to my bullshit, but you're not Colleen and will not hug me when I need one - yet you never, ever leave me.  In fact, you are here consoling me more than she is.  I know that now  and I know that I will never lose you.

Last year I don't remember writing you a letter because I didn't have the courage.  I still don't, really.  You're already chuckling at my spontaneity, my fumbled attempt; you can't even call me silly girl, because you gave that name to her, and I cannot be her.

I think I would like to be Colleen because you are one of my ideals.  A lover.  A friend.  A father.  Whatever it is.  You are the least understood of them all.  For me to write you doing something, your appearance, your name, even I know that those characters I deem "Lale" in the stories don't even come close to someone like you.  Even Colleen is less real than you because she is such a crucial part of me that I sometimes forget the divide.  You're something else.

You're a part of me too, but you have the liberty to look me in the eyes from the inside of my mind, and not say a word.

But it is your birthday.  I am here to tell you that I love you and appreciate you and am glad for you.  I can feel you turn away, flush red.  Aha.  See, you do have emotions - and I know you hide them well.  You hide them well from me but you'll give them freely to Colleen.  Is that why, whenever I imagine the two of you, there is always that strange feeling of distance you give me?  Because I'm invading your private time with her?  Well, I can't help that, can I, you insufferable man?

My first triumph in your eyes is even getting to this point, isn't it?  This age.  Eighteen.  I'm eighteen and you're nine this year, exactly nine years apart.   That explains the spirituality, then.  Thanks for lending it to me.

You and I both thought I'd be dead by now.  Ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen...  And by seventeen I no longer thought about dying. Now I fear death because I have things to live for.  I know, I know, you don't have to call me a hypocrite.  Don't give me that insufferable smile, either, ugh.  Oh, Lay, stop interrupting me in my heartfelt confession when I'm writing to you.  Come on, now.

I am going to ask you a question and please, answer honestly.

Do you hate me?

...Your answer was such a quiet No.  You thought about it, too.  Thank you for thinking about it.  Because I know you - you wouldn't hesitate to consider sugar coating my feelings.  You hesitate to sort out your own.  You love me in your own way, is it?  Thank you, again.  I love you too.

I will never be lonely so long as the two of you are here.  Thank you for being the shadow to her light, the part to complete the duality that is such an essential part of me.  I gave you the piano, I gave you her, I gave you an idea of family, a background, a language, another couple names.  Mist, Vaudemair dia Gatlael.  In my heart you will always just be Lay, though, you darling man.  Thank you for watching me grow so far and I know - and you know this, too - that I won't disappoint as I go on.   Happy birthday.  Have some cuddle time with Colleen; tonight I will try to leave you two in peace.  Perhaps I'll go disturb the Saint children.

Oh, Lale.  You're so mean.  Don't laugh at them like that, or I'll make Adriano eat your cake.

(It never worries you when I make more.  Even if they're like you, you know they can never replace you.  Smug, arrogant, accurate, irreplaceable man.  Good night.)