DEAR YOU, THE ONE I WROTE THIS FOR

In this hour of solitude, I've finally decided to draw myself towards my senses
& sentiments, which might have their dire consequences. Meticulously, there
are quite a few ways to interpret or perceive this information. Still, to ease my
pressure, I'd like to predefine that this letter holds no intention to chill down
your spine, creep you out, or suggest any menace. It's not something that could
be well suitable for a public exhibition or self-bragging, and mind you,
exploitation or misuse of this letter in any way will be a mockery of your
disposition & character. It might be a rude awakening for you, my dear, but you
shall not take the privacy and civility of my sentiments and efforts for granted. I
wish I could rely upon a singular ground out of my 'tote bag,' no less equivalent
than a feast of good reasons for writing this. Still, most of all, it was and always
has been my conviction in you that you are proficient enough to fathom the
depth and intent instilled in this message and play the long game to shield its
content from what I say, the armchair critics, cog in a machine or even for the
fact, the wise guy. Post all the estimations and deliberations; I have chosen to be
anonymous with you, not because I fear your dissent, but as a matter of concern,
I must make it clear that I do not tend to hold any contrary rose-colored glasses
from you but because such sensations, I feel are only witnessed for once in a
blue moon. Beating around the bush in pursuit of knowing who the writer is or
being too assured about who it could be will land you in turmoil and make an
improper or cloudy impression about me. So for time again, I'd like to make you
realize that I have my own very appropriate and personal reasons for hiding my
identity, which I shall discuss in the latter part of this letter. Henceforth, I
request from you not to hold any confidence about my identity and accept all of
this just as a token of love, affection, care, honesty, and faith towards you. For
now, it'd be best in your cart to disguise me like a breeze of tenderness &
melody of a love song written for you. At the juncture in which you start
hearing a lot about yourself, do not miss out on acknowledging the very
thingness of me, the jingle of my heart, that you are, Ananya Shreyas.
Hope is a good breakfast but a bad supper. 'Not being pessimistic much, I
expect this letter to find the lady's lad in a pink atmosphere, better when he's
humming around with delightful profiles and nothing much exquisite.'
Meanwhile, I shall scrutinize the quandary as to whether it shall be conversed to
you or not; Only time will tell. In the burning frame of mind, I suggest letting
you know that I hold no intention to let it pursue you with the fainted heart; if
this insinuates my incredulity in your regard as my man, shall it be? For the kiss
of heaven, how must I have any idea about how grained you are. It might knock
you down with a feather or rather already be under your nose that people
discern a deal about your persona, and may shall I reveal with no torment that
I'm a living witness of it all, narcissist I hear most. Embroilment of me in this
regard has proven to be worst than driving water to sea; I apologize. As dubious
as I may come off, I guarantee I'm bored to tears, and it's certainly not what I
feel about you as a whole. Specific Fractions of you are still peculiar to me,
though I tend to read a great deal about you; it always puzzles me. And
undeniably, blame cannot be placed on me subsequently; your crafty build-up
has been hogging the limelight quite well. Though many might seem
apprehensive of it, profoundly because they shall be green in envy, my area of
concern is your mystified approach to me, exceptionally. If you manifest on
being a smart arse, abstain though it'd be handsome of you to be at your finest.
Better late than never; at long last, I'm 'couraging to make up for the lost time.
How is it that we are pebbles of the same sea yet stars apart? Your presence
always reminds me of our distance, the impossibility of our happening, and the
bridge between the enchantments of my head and the grounds of reality.