a Letter to her, left unread

Sometimes days go by when he does not think of her, and when he realises that, it saddens him. He loves her, he knows, deep in his heart, yet he is unworthy to be admitted to love. To be honest, he has never truly understood love. What is love? He asks himself. A word frees us of all the weight and pain of life? The only sane and satisfactory answer to the problem of human existence? He is not sure. But somehow it sounds nice to him, like a master key which opens the gates of happiness. Or just the gates to the world of illusion? He doubts every now and then. Perchance he fails to love.

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