I step into the field and I walk across very fast or I will lose all my courage. I get into the woods and I listen to the crackling of dry leaves and twigs under my feet. I hear the trees talking to me, or perhaps it’s the wind talking to me through the trees. I look up. I am in love. And I need to tell you. I need to tell you now.
I walk to the water and take my phone out, I press record. I hear my own voice struggling to get the concept out of my head, so I delete. I look around and I notice some kids with sticks walking toward me. For fuck’s sake, I think. I stand up and I keep walking.
I look for a cosy little spot between the trees but the whole fucking London seems to be here and listening. So I start thinking that perhaps it’s too soon to give you that love information. What am I, a fucking weirdo or something?
But I love you, or like, I’m in love, so it’s not that deep and conscious yet but I know I feel love and I really like you and you smell like raspberries all the fucking time even when you haven’t showered in a while, and I've known you for like what... three months? It’s not too soon to say, right? Right?
I climb on a tree. Let’s see who’s going to ruin it here for me. Cowards.
I take out my phone and look at the trees around me. They are so beautiful. You are so beautiful. I want to tell you that I know you, and I feel you, and that we don’t have to talk because I understand our silences now. I start recording again and I’m a complete moron. I tame my thoughts by pacing the words in all the wrong ways, getting to you through a window when the door is wide open.
“I just don’t want to feel like I cannot say things but I also don’t want to overwhelm you”. I think about you all the time, look, I am sitting on a tree in case something goes wrong. I started to write a new story because of how you clean after a cat that’s not yours, I masturbate over that video of you washing your face for four minutes and twenty nine seconds, I walk to your house like it’s the last thing I’m going to do on this planet, I cry when we get high on weed because I am too afraid to tell you that you are truly weird and you make me feel like I am normal and like I don’t want to be normal. And I don’t think I’ve ever felt normal or like I belonged in my entire life.
But you do you. I don’t need to have a need satisfied to know that you’re great. I’d love you anyway. What is there not to love? If freedom and creativity were tangible, they’d have your brain, and I feel privileged to see that, to feel it, to document it and to even be part of it. Sometimes you will smile and entwine the words in such a bizarre way and still make sense and I’ll think that if they tried to draw your character they wouldn’t be able to come up with a human form for it.
“So... ahm... yeah... eheh... I am on a tree!” like a fucking teenage boy. Perhaps that’s the most coherent thing I manage to record but there are now maybe eight minutes of monologue and I press send. So I will just keep staring into your eyes next time we’re together, hoping that you’ll notice.
Look. I gave you flowers! I’ll bring you a dead bird the next time. Because I love you.
