- Where may I begin? I see so many letters and signs and numbers which are new to me. I am writing this in earnest. I am a young woman of 32 years, much accustomed, preferring solitude. Through an unlikely love from which I severed only as of recently...do I write what I feel I need to write if IT WOULD SAVE ME. (Any thing more which would, may describe me, though I am advised not to mention this; IS - The only REFUGE" of mine, since I've been a little girl - THAT which is known as The Fine Arts! Writing has been the uncalled child I had not known was pleading to become the new crying voice at birth, which will, if strong enough, announce itself! Mine has done so, though I have tried adamantly to silence it. No more than One child did I want from my psyche.) But I digress, excuse me.
Immediately before our severance from one another, the stranger; a teaser, had introduced me, through a mystery of his person, by which he'd either won me, or had fooled me into desiring very much to be the Only One in his heart.
However, once he'd made familiar, in a way, I've yet not understood intellectually, but intuitively know to have Always KNOWN...Mr. Cohen's music, especially his lyrics to this, I knew I had changed.
The change had come especially through a song named "Dance Me to the End of love." For, I say it sincerely; any sacredness I had before denied to "love", I discovered, and very painfully through the lyrics in this piece.
I had married once, when very young - and had done so, as a favour to my best friend, whom I did not love, and knew then, I'd never love as a husband. But, those were the days of my many favours offered to anyone who'd ask for one or many. I am still very sacrificial a being, although through so much expenditure of me, through these, I have very little now to offer anyone, except the Full entirety of my remaining self, which waits as naively did; Moctezuma's Gold-filled room, for the Spaniards - and Kafka's "beautiful Room" which no less of being, does it still remain "EMPTY!"
I feel I've written too much, and have explained little of why Mr. Cohen's music, hold me for the moment; resuscitated, although I know that even the meaningful-to-me, potency of his words will fail to save me. I've been that closely spent to death, by now.
Still, I wanted to let know to anyone who'd hear me, for this remains of last importance to me - If ever again I did have Grace hold me and convince me to walk, my own chosen move toward the altar...I'd never allow anything less, which I'd acknowledge a sacrilege...allow me to be parted away from my husband, than Death itself, AND ONLY!
I owe this revelation so late into my life come, to Mr. Cohen...and so I thank him. I would not have wanted to die not having discovered, what sadly, I have of much lived in casual respect to, which is owed to love.
Thank You. One more thing; those smiling, laughing, (could they also be mocking?) at my right, I fail, their presence to appreciate. They seem so empty of pious reason. As so much in this new virtual real, now accessible, seems to weigh to me.