Confessions Of A Heart

By Perfectstar Snaitang

Dear Sophia,

I hope this letter finds you and that it finds you well. How are you coping with your music classes? How was Edinburgh this winter? I remember those cold winter afternoons when my grandfather during his prime years would come home, bringing us memorable accounts of his life and work, the places he had been, the people he met, the pictures he had taken. (Sometimes I did wonder whether he made those recollections for our sakes or to savour those memories himself.) Edinburgh is dear to my heart—not only because of those glorious, albeit flickering memories of my past, but much more so, because you are there.

I received your letter of gratitude from Doug. I want you to know that you do not have to thank me every time I put myself in service of you. I am at no loss, really. Your burden is my burden, your tears are my tears, and your well-being is my foremost concern. Indeed, I have happily constrained myself to care for you, even through your darkest days.

As for the matter we talked about last time, there is so much pent-up in my heart that I have not been able to say to you. You have been very affirming, but I have been very stoical. I am a miserable fool—an enemy of my own happiness! You know that I am cold and reserved, but you have broken down these strong walls of Tantallon, and now my heart is laid bare before you. You have enchanted me from the moment I saw you and heard the words of your voice. More gracious words have I never heard! And what shall I say of the excellencies of your beauty? This scribbling pen of mine will but mar them. Yet, surpassing all these, is that unfading beauty of your calm and gentle spirit, your love for Christ, and your wit and cheerful disposition, in whose company I desire to bask in. I am never more myself than when I am with you. I love you, Sophia, and the closer we get, the more I realise, that my life would not be complete without you. And to have you echo the same love for me is all that I could ask for.

I feel like I have so much more to say. This vain attempt at putting my feelings on paper! When I have used up every metaphor imaginable and run out of ink seven times, alas! I have said nothing, when all is done. O that a skilled craftsman would take out my heart and mould it into a pen!

Distance is cruel. We were torn away from each other too soon. That last walk of ours through Barriston did more to hurt than heal me. But I trust we shall see each other again this coming winter, Lord willing. I hope you do not think it unkindly of me for having delayed writing to you for so long. I have been rather occupied lately—not that I could spare no time for you, dear; indeed, I could have written to you, but I chose not to, until a more generous time as at present, to make sure that when you receive this letter, you receive nothing less than my heart.

I look forward to hear your thoughts about the book I gave you last September; I read yours rather greedily.

Give my warm regards to your mother and your sister.

With love,

By Perfectstar Snaitang