Tag Archives: Neil Gaiman

Letter to A Lover

“The moment that you feel that, just possibly, you’re walking down the street naked, exposing too much of your heart and your mind and what exists on the inside, showing too much of yourself.

That’s the moment you may be starting to get it right.”

Neil Gaiman



I know things have been hard lately.

We’ve been clinging to dreams of the past, without remembering to dream in the now. Things have changed, life is busy, and our worlds feel like they are never crossing.

I know you, just as I, have been slowly feeling everything fading. A pace so calm that moment to moment, nothing at all has changed. And yet, once we had all, where now we are scrabbling to hold the pieces together.

I don’t know what will happen with us next, my lover, and I know you don’t either. I am scared, terrified, lonely, and hurting. And only when I am in your embrace, does it all seem like a nightmare that I can wake from.

But no matter what happens, there are a few things I want you always to remember. To hold true in your heart, and to keep joy alive in what we have had. Because though I don’t know how things will turn out, I do know these things; the reasons why I have loved you with a passion i cannot begin to hope to describe.

The first thing that drew me to love you, was the warmth around you, how comfortable I felt, all mixed with an intensity, a need to be near each other that we both felt. It was something I had never felt before, never thought I could feel.
I felt so safe around you. No awkwardness, no fear, only wonder. A disbelieving wonder.
The way you looked at me, the words you spoke… They called to me. And sometimes I think that I knew. That I knew from the moment you had caught my gaze in that little café, eyes so startling blue, lips curled into a small smile that seemed… Knowing. Amused. Curious.
I think I knew then. And I think you did too.

The second thing was how fast everything moved. The romance. The passion. The talking.
There were no games. You did not hide how you felt. You did not wait to text me, or to ask me out. You felt something, and you acted on it without hesitation. It was what I needed for you to do, and you did so naturally.
You loved me for who I was. You were intrigued by my writing, you saw what it meant to me. And we talked about everything. I was fascinated by you, this man who had somehow swept away all my overthinking, my concerns, my logic… You had broken the rules with ease.
There is a brightness around you my dearest that I have never seen around anyone else. A confidence that draws attention, a way you walk through life following no path but your own. Sincere, loving, passionate; you weren’t afraid to show me any of it. Time and again, the look in your eyes would cause everything to freeze around me, light me aflame. I could not get enough of you. I still can’t.

And then there was something that left me afraid, but in awe.
I had no walls with you.
You did not break through them; you did not melt them away. You had no need; with you they were just never there. Everything you were giving to me, the love, the time, the kindness, the burning. I gave it back to you, just as fiercely, as strongly, as willingly. We had trust, though I cannot know how. Not when the heart is involved. Surely, with something so precious each move should be measured, each step tested. But we tumbled, falling as fast as we could, embracing each terrifying, eye-opening moment. I felt so alive.

We had everything. The world was golden, and as time passed everything ripened. Depth came to our interactions, a connection that only made things more wonderful in a way I couldn’t believe. I collected moments, and held them close to my heart. They’re still there my love, and sometimes I wander through them, sparking all that was back into life.

Your hand over my heart, telling me you would always protect me, always love me.
The careful, solemn, thrumming moment when you gave me your necklace to wear, a touch of uncertainty in the moment that only made it more endearing.
The times we play fought in the lounge of my apartment, sunlight and breezes joining us, your skin so smooth against mine, the moment so good I wondered if it was real.
The way you looked at me that night, shaking your head a little in disbelief, a faint laughter in your voice as you said ‘You’re so in love with me,’ as if I couldn’t be, as if you didn’t deserve every inch of my heart, and more.
How occasionally you would say something that would take me by surprise that would hold so much intensity that I’d catch my breath. I couldn’t help myself; I would just forget to breathe.

I wish I could list them all, and maybe I will in time, in something that will be for my eyes only. Because not everything is for the world to see, and the tenderness in everything we have had, is something only we can really know.

I write this my lover, not to proclaim my feelings for you to the world, not to try and fix what is between us in some desperate attempt. No. My reasons for writing this are much simpler than that. I write it, because I want to celebrate all we had. All we gave to each other. Every single instance that happened.

Too often things turn dark, fear bringing hurt, and resentment, swirling together, driving it all further down till the brightness of what was is lost. But that is not the way it should be, even if the call will always be there, even if it’s easier to hide in blame, and regret, than stand up and embrace the good along with the bad.
But I will not run away from the pain, not treat it as something to be ashamed of or something to conceal from others every time it reminds me it is there. Instead, I will be glad of it. For it shows that what we had, what we have, truly is incredible. We have had what others have only dreamed of. What I never thought existed.

So celebrate with me, my dearest. Lift your chin up, and smile; smile that slightly self-assured smile that I have never been able to forget. Smile it, play our songs, and never regret. I don’t.


We have parted ways now, in a way I never imagined we would. Much of what we have had, has been shattered, and amongst the ruins I find myself trying to rebuild what was true even though I can no longer tell. I am blind, my darling. And I cannot tell if my heart points true.

Maybe I am foolish. Maybe I am too naïve, as you have so often told me in frustration and love. But I still believe in you, even as it tears me apart to do so, even as I cannot forgive or forget. I believe in that light inside of you. And maybe you have much healing to do, as I do too now. But I know you will find your way again, find ground that holds steady beneath your feet.

And with time, you will learn that you do not need to do this life on your own. Sometimes the most powerful way to show love is not to always be there for someone else. Sometimes, it is letting them be there for you, not hiding away that you are suffering. That you are lost.

I hope this reaches you. I hope you read this, and know that all our moments are still held, if not always visited. That I still feel the warmth and weight of your hand, over my heart.

And I hope that one day I will see you again.
Years from now maybe, in a café in some foreign land. And that we will catch each other’s gazes, and smile as if we’d never met.

As if it was all beginning again.


When the Muse comes Calling

As I mentioned in my last post, I am overwhelmed with assignments for University right now. 

So what better time for the muse to sidle in? And she comes bearing such tempting gifts as well… 

I gave in. How could I not? I love what I study, and I want to do well in it. Some part of my life will always be dedicated to maths. However, writing has always been my first calling, and when it comes down to working on my assignments and writing a scene that promises so much, I can never seem to walk away from the writing… So this morning, before eating or getting a hot coffee in my hand, I huddled in my dressing gown on my bed and wrote. 

In case you are wondering; it is winter in my area of the world. And my room which is devoid of morning (or even evening) sunlight, though lovely, has a bite to it when it comes to being cold. However, I can forgive it that when it is large enough for my bookshelf to be within reach of my bed. I do not even need to leave the warmth of my blankets to escape into a myriad of different universes. And what is happiness, if not that?

The gift my muse has brought is an odd one. Strange, and precious. Fragile. It is like nothing I have written before, and sometimes I get frightened writing it. It feels as if the way it is written cannot sustain a whole book. That it is more suited to musings, and short stories, that there is not enough of anything to weave a plot.

I am getting better at ignoring doubt however. I carefully lock the voice up in a soundproof room where it can echo back on itself rather than on me. 

Maybe what I have cannot sustain a book. Maybe it can. There are books out there that have an eerie isolation to them, and yet most definitely have plot. Neil Gaiman’s book, ‘The Ocean at the End of the Lane’ for one. ‘The Night Circus’ by Erin Morgenstern another. Both of which if you haven’t read, I highly recommend. Very highly. (And with those, though of a different feel to it, is Patrick Rothfuss’s novels. He is a genius.)
In the end though, I am writing, and I am enjoying. Is that not what matters? That I am losing myself in a story, and practicing my craft? It is much better than where I have been lately, where I have been caught in a story that I cannot seem to immerse myself in. I love it, but currently I am getting no where with it, and it has been affecting me.

So even though her timing, as always, is the most inconvenient, I welcomed the muse so warmly that I think I almost scared her away. Though I hope it will, upon reflection, cause her to want to come visit more often. 

It feels good to love a story again. To get lost in it, and be swept away by its charms. 

A new story like this is the beginning of a grand love affair, if without there being another human involved…