MAY I KISS YOU, THEN
You have picked up this book somewhere on the way of your life. Perhaps you bought it in a bookstore perhaps you borrowed it in a library. But here you are, holding the book covers in your hand and flipping through the first empty pages, the preface, the dedications and the title, finally getting to the beginning of the story. So here we are; you in this very moment of your day, perhaps coming home from lectures or from doing some work or from not doing some work if it happens to be the weekend, and me, this character in a book who doesn’t really have a life of its own, but have somehow became a part of yours now.
Perhaps you might think that I am trapped somewhere in between the authors creation and your own imagination, but everybody is always trapped somewhere, so it doesn’t really matter if I’m trapped in the middle of these pages or in a dysfunctional family, trying to give a meaning to this process we call life by making a career on the expense of becoming an ambitious narcissistic someone, dressed in a nice suit, marrying someone I loved when I were still able to have feelings, but then cheating on him as soon as we move in together and have kids, regretting it all in the end when just before my final breath I find out that it was only love that mattered in the first place, but I were just too coward to listen to my heart and defy the demands of society.
But you are not like that. Finding you here makes me believe that you still value that precious moment of silence, building up a new relationship between your mind and a fictional character in a book. So what am I like, you start asking yourself. Well let me tell you that I am old enough to separate love from lust and yet young enough not to care which of it prevails at the moment. My body is shaped in a way Francisco Goya depicted the woman’s body with all the nicely shaped curves and breasts and curly long hair. And my mind? I honestly do not know, because there is no other mind to compare it with; in this infinite whiteness of pages, there is just me. So how do you look like? I know, don’t tell me. I can feel it through the look of your eyes and through the tip of your fingers, gliding over the smooth passages of the book.
Has anybody ever told you that the hands are the most erotic part of the human’s body? And having you hold me like this, in the palms of your hands, makes me feel a bit excited. If you put the book in your left hand and slide the outer part of your fingers over the page – go on – I must tell you that you are, in fact, gliding over the soft inside of my pale thighs under the silk fabric of my dress. And when you press your palm against the text – you are in fact pressing it against my… foolish human, I don’t even exist!
But even if I were to exist – what would make me more real than the inside of your head, imagining me in any way you desire. Don’t we all make up realities in our heads which only rarely coincide with realities in other people’s heads and the »heads« of society, the country, the world? But it’s nice to be a part of your mind. If you like me, I hope that you find me some day somewhere in another human being, and if you don’t, I hope you never meet anyone like me and that when you finish reading this book, you’ll put it away and forget all about it.
And yet we will always have had this brief moment, this incredibly real illusion of a touch of our bodies and our minds. I must admit that I’m slowly kind of getting to like you, silly human. I don’t know why, but there is something about you humans that even though you are led mostly by instincts of survival and recreation, there is this strange feeling of wholeness when in the presence of the right other person. And just like that you seem to forget all about yourselves and become that other being in that glowing feeling in your chest. I wish I could ever be able of producing that kind of feeling in another person, but you are the only one I’ll ever know.
So may you kiss me then on this miserable paper? You might as well open the window and kiss the night’s air! Either way your lips will join mine in an incomprehensible touch, tenderrer than the touch between the earth and the sky and more precious than Midas’ touch of gold. Would you believe me then, if I told you I love you, though I am just a dream?