My brother is a luckless fool, the most hopeless of romantics, and I fancy myself a level headed fella — not nonchalant; I’m far from it, and yet, nowhere close to that buffoon. He is of an extreme character, especially on the matters of the heart, one would say damn near disturbed, especially when he is in love, which he finds himself in every dozen months or so. I used to watch with my mouth agape, his escapades… no, his daring ventures for companionship, finding it impossible to be in his shoes. I used to spectate from not so far a distance like I was a movie critic, confounded with him and with my lackluster conjectures — as I did with most events in my life. Little did I know, that through no fault of his own, at least, not entirely, I would be just as foolish and devoted to love as he is.

Last night was quite torturous for me: Spawns of the summer, lively and rowdy mosquitoes circled above my bed like vultures over a carcass, like miniature helicopters sent to drive me insane with their unforgiving dissonance. As you can imagine, this infuriated me, for I had, like every other night, began daydreaming about a girl, to put it bluntly and somewhat modestly, a girl I had fell for. And I would much rather lose myself in the folly of my imaginations of her, and maybe translate those to dreams that stand endless nights, than concern myself with such insignificant trifles, trifles like the maneuvering and cursing of mosquitoes.

I was in quite the particular conundrum, as my brother put it: In love with a best friend — a best friend, whom from close observation, mirrored my own feelings (What if she didn’t). And I was crippled with complications that would ‘surely’ follow if I unburdened myself of those unwanted feelings. He admitted that even he, the love mogul, had never found himself in such a conflicting dilemma. And so he watched over yonder and with wonder of how this wasn’t my first or second time, but third in such a quagmire. For the first time the girl and I both hung in torturous limbo until this day. And the second time, it worked out as it was written by Nisan-al-gaib and ended accordingly by his own providence.

Yesterday evening, while at his house, I felt drawn to my brother’s guitar, as if it was time I stopped using my mouth, and time I found an off body instrument to express how I felt. I floated to it, like a leaf carried by a soft breeze, and embraced it in my arms, like how a mother would her child. I ran the tips of my fingers on its strings, and they reverberated back to me, to tell me that they saw me, and felt me. I brushed my palm on the edges of its figure; Picasso painted, an acoustic had never made me think of my best friend before, about her buxom, her figure 8 body. And instantly, I knew the world could never be flat, curvature is too sexy to not exist.

He caught me in its trance, in her trance; it had a name, he called the guitar Venessa because he loved Venessa— My brother is a fool, an honest fool; a genuine fool that wore his heart on his sleeve, a romantic fool. He forbade me from shame and pretence and entreated me to play with Venessa, just like how a cuck would.

Upon my hesitation, he elaborated the enchantment that would follow if I gave in to love, if I fully devoted myself to passion, if for a moment, I stopped thinking and just felt Venessa. And indeed it was so when I gave myself to her and did away with all my earthly tethers. (I cannot play guitar.)

Yesterday was very torturous for me. In the eyes of the mosquitoes, I was Canaan, a fertile land promised to them 3, 000 years ago. They multiplied in absurd numbers, in a blink of an eye. They taught their young where to find the softest skin to bite through, where most reserves of blood were, and how to avoid natural disasters: the flailing of my arms as I try to, to no avail, protect myself. The mosquitoes started an entire civilization and religion because they had a covenant, and I had very hot blankets.

As you can imagine, this drove me insane, this and the fact that I could not lose myself in illusions of a happily-ever-after with my best friend, not marriage, but something greater: A covenant based on true love.

I confess, most times, man finds it daunting to confront the perils brought by the human condition, perils such as regret, grief, freedom etc., and in my case, the dissatisfaction of staying just friends, and the possibility of losing her altogether if I confess. As my brother deposits, it’s usually simple for me with other girls, because I don’t fear rejection, nor do I have any pre-existing relationships with them up for collateral, usually. Yes, usually. But it’s a different ballpark altogether when you take interest in a friend, goal posts move and your confidence as a player wavers. Even he, the love mogul, has never found himself in such a conflicting dilemma.

“We work hard and play hard not because we are more industrious or more playful than our ancestors are but because we dare not stop, lest in the stillness, we are overwhelmed by the sound of our own anxieties and fears.” (Tillich 2000:xvii)

Last night, as I fought my own anxieties and fears more than the Mosquitoes and overwhelming heat, I thought of my brother, a luckless fool and the most hopeless of romantics. He had never fell in love and did nothing about it; He had played the clown, danced like pennywise. He had written poems and songs, and dragged me into his hopeless romanticism parade, consequently yanking me out of my casuistic quandary.

As I played Venessa, beautifully if I might add, words found him in a falsetto between her melody; He was in no way an exceptional singer, but his genuine expression of the one that got away closely resembled the spirit of the blues, Nina Simone would be proud.

Before yesterday, I had incessantly worked like a slave and played like a child, all to keep her off my mind, and somehow, miraculously, still be a good friend. But last night, lines blurred and labels clashed as my feelings crashed down on me. Mosquito bites turned me delirious, for they were constant and had effectively turned my nails towards myself, to violently claw, gnaw and tear at my skin. As I seeked refugee in my blanket, I was met with heat from hell, boiling my mind into temperatures of delusion: I started seeing things that weren’t there, and feeling tearings on my skin way more violent than mosquito bites. On my neck, chest, arms, legs, everywhere, I raked my skin under my nails to rid off itchings that felt like exploding stars.

I was beside myself with delirium, unsure whether the itchings were still from the mosquitoes, or if they were even real at all. Unsure whether I was going crazy because of the heat or because my mind was melting from the collapse of my own feelings upon my reasoning. By morning, as I woke, I was at wonder at the seemingly familiar reality and not in heaven or hell, for I vividly remembered dying the previous night. I found one pimple on my neck and not a thousand more at every inch of my body, my clothes clung onto me all wet and cold from sweat. But, with what I can only describe as an epiphany, I felt more clear headed than ever, with one clear goal: Come what may, I had to tell my best friend the matters of my heart.

The love letter is available and you can read it, the contents of my heart, in a short story called ‘Leshala le Naoa’, in page 82 Of Where The Mountains Meet The Sky.