(no subject)
Letter to Emily Sterling September 19, 1921
Dear Ms. Sterling,
I must confess my worries that this correspondence was sent in error to the wrong man, but I am sure now that I am the intended recipient. The occasional letters from you have always been a joy to read, this one no exception save its intentions. I admit your romantic interest does not fall on deaf ears or unwilling eyes, but has been aimed on a fairly fickle target. Through nights and days of isolated existence the dream of female companionship has always been entertained in idle hours but never in the practical workings of my mind. The problem lies with two simple truths, that I am both a romantic coward and leper. By this I mean that I am poisoned with a neurotic view of love and courtship, one that is bound with chains of fear. This is not to say that I am one of those sniveling bohemes you see in the cafes, crying out in dark hysterical tongues the contents of their impotent minds. What I am trying to say is that I am a poor man for the job, the fact that this is written in a letter and not stated in person is further evidence.
Understand here and now that this is not a rejection of you or your character, if anything they have been the reasons why this decision has been so difficult. This is a rejection of myself, a coward's ploy to escape his duty. An easy lie to tell would consist of stories relating tragic tales of failures in romance, a callow version myself always being at the whims of grease-hearted harlots. Those sorts of stories are easy to fabricate, as source material is simple to come by. I made little effort in my younger days to court girls I had taken a fancy to, with the result being the romantic leper penning this letter. What little effort I did expend was poorly executed, with the small accidents in puppy love compounding into a grown man's entire view of his existence. A warped view of romance has taken me to sitting in the far off seats with the other lepers, bemoaning a fate undeserved.
The most painful part of this cowardly leprosy is that I know the cure. I have always seen the errors of my ways but adamantly refused to take any corrective action. The truth forever awaits me, but I refuse it because I haven't the interest to do so. I stubbornly maintain the status quo because it is easier to fear, and simpler to stay a leper. I justify my ideas with flimsy arguments of love eternal and half-hearted standards. I lay awake at nights wondering if I will end my days in solitude, yet I sit here now rejecting my ability to you. You are the kind of woman that a part of me screams is the answer, yet another part screams is another in an ocean of the unattainable and the unwanted. Your reaction to this response will prove one part or another's point, and perhaps you will give me good reason to shatter my foolish theories.
Yours in Anxiety,
Gigham Young
Dear Ms. Sterling,
I must confess my worries that this correspondence was sent in error to the wrong man, but I am sure now that I am the intended recipient. The occasional letters from you have always been a joy to read, this one no exception save its intentions. I admit your romantic interest does not fall on deaf ears or unwilling eyes, but has been aimed on a fairly fickle target. Through nights and days of isolated existence the dream of female companionship has always been entertained in idle hours but never in the practical workings of my mind. The problem lies with two simple truths, that I am both a romantic coward and leper. By this I mean that I am poisoned with a neurotic view of love and courtship, one that is bound with chains of fear. This is not to say that I am one of those sniveling bohemes you see in the cafes, crying out in dark hysterical tongues the contents of their impotent minds. What I am trying to say is that I am a poor man for the job, the fact that this is written in a letter and not stated in person is further evidence.
Understand here and now that this is not a rejection of you or your character, if anything they have been the reasons why this decision has been so difficult. This is a rejection of myself, a coward's ploy to escape his duty. An easy lie to tell would consist of stories relating tragic tales of failures in romance, a callow version myself always being at the whims of grease-hearted harlots. Those sorts of stories are easy to fabricate, as source material is simple to come by. I made little effort in my younger days to court girls I had taken a fancy to, with the result being the romantic leper penning this letter. What little effort I did expend was poorly executed, with the small accidents in puppy love compounding into a grown man's entire view of his existence. A warped view of romance has taken me to sitting in the far off seats with the other lepers, bemoaning a fate undeserved.
The most painful part of this cowardly leprosy is that I know the cure. I have always seen the errors of my ways but adamantly refused to take any corrective action. The truth forever awaits me, but I refuse it because I haven't the interest to do so. I stubbornly maintain the status quo because it is easier to fear, and simpler to stay a leper. I justify my ideas with flimsy arguments of love eternal and half-hearted standards. I lay awake at nights wondering if I will end my days in solitude, yet I sit here now rejecting my ability to you. You are the kind of woman that a part of me screams is the answer, yet another part screams is another in an ocean of the unattainable and the unwanted. Your reaction to this response will prove one part or another's point, and perhaps you will give me good reason to shatter my foolish theories.
Yours in Anxiety,
Gigham Young