I ask for your forgiveness in writing this to you, and I can assure it will be my final interference in this delicate matter. I write to you in this manner because I cannot truly convey to you my full incarnations in speech, only in music and by pen. The first I have done and the latter, I shall endeavor to do. I do not ask you to act upon what I write or endanger any happiness you have recently found, but I would betray myself as I have done countless times before if I do not confess to you my feelings.
Sitting in the background, quiet and anonymous, I usually listen rather than talk. I observe the conversations around me almost as if I were not even present in the room. In appearance, I look younger than my true age and have the physical make up of what is easily to be considered by anyone as the opposite of handsomeness. Any compliments that are given in this regard are merely out of pity, and I would much rather that they remained unsaid. My bodily appearance is perhaps my curse, one that has perfected its method of repulsiveness, but one that I have nonetheless through an inhuman amount of mental suppression have come to accept with a heavy heart. Though endowed with unpleasantness, hope remains. This curse has but only one remedy. When the remedy is not readily available, I am insignificant. When available, I am paramount. Music is my cure. In my music, I create an appearance undetectable by mortal eyes. An insurmountable beauty far ahead of shallow good looks. Because I can see this beauty, this angelic perfection worthy of the universe, this godly art that unites thought with feeling in an unbreakable bound unweathered by time, I assume that everyone else around me can see it as well. I have come accepted the tearful fact that I am the only one, chosen to hear what other human beings cannot yet also chosen to stand against the constant battles of life alone. I am prepared to love anyone unquestionably if only they would open their arms, but no one has opened their arms. I see relationships around me based only upon fondness. In this regard, I am not fond. I do not like I love, for all time no matter the other loves that my appear. My heart and soul are open, even though the pain of rejection and being overlooked convinces me more each day that my curse will be my final judgement, not my music. I compose for an eternal companion that does not exist. My search has always been predestined to fail. I suffer from a throughly lacerated heart, and by accepting this desolate imminence I fear the ultimate decay and withering away of my soul would be complete. No matter how many others you may grow fond of briefly or share in a relationship that because of only your will to kindle the flame through the hardships despite the other's lack of devotion, my feelings will remain, just as my music shall remain,
Wounded, but never broken...