My Dearest

My dearest, 
                    I don’t know why I am writing this. Believe me, I am as surprised as you are. I don’t please myself with the pretence that this letter  is necessary. Nor is it a mortification of my spasmodic urge to scribble. And I definitely don’t expect a reply, though expect and “desire” are different realms altogether.
                  But maybe, now that you have read me so far in the hope of finding the words that your mind instinctively expected to see while you were unfolding this sheet, and, having discovered that “hope” and the “present” don’t ever tread the same path when desired, you might start getting overcome by that obdurately empty feeling of time mismanagement – both on my part (for writing this letter) and yours (for reading it). Rest assured, by the time, if at all you reach the climax of this odyssey – the nature of which, going by the dictums of our lifelong enemy, the Present, is unknown to me as well—your fears of disappointment will be succinctly mollified; and before you point out the chronic mistake that I am making in rendering passive assurances on redundant assumptions, allow my scrupulous intentions to wear their palliative garb of pedestrian innocence. I may now, if you deem it appropriate in accordance to the particularly portentous plenitude of stars, numbers or other such omens that you hold fortuitous in your estimation, begin to splurge upon the subject which the Present dictates that you should be privy to, and without being presumptuous or a prig, if I may remonstrate, by necessary consequence or implication, the fact that the cutest, sweetest and the best heart in the sea of humans belongs not to the author of this dictum, but rather to the author of my condition.