A letter which left unanswered

It was Saturday night. I said to myself the shop closes by 5.pm on weekends. No chance. Then as hope and disappointment usually comes in tandem and to keep myself going, I thought that if by any chance it was open and she was there I would turn right, as if it was my initial path, go straight toward Francis street and would enter the shop and say “Hi, how are you today? How has your day been so far?” And then? My imagination stopped here. I was pretty sure that the Subway is closed at evenings on weekends. Now I was in front of the Francis street, opposite of the Level; Not that I have been engaged in those thoughts all along the way. Though this is all I can remember after a week.

One shouldn't give too much thought to his hopes although they silently might stand still in a far corner of one’s mind. (Now I have just got off the train at the Brighton station and, while sitting on these new benches under the orange-yellowish light, am writing this letter. I fear that while I was getting off the train I would lose the track of what was passing in me.) Anyway, I looked through the dark street in which the Subway is at the other end: Open, just like as it is during the week, and apparently, as far as my weak eyes could see a rather tall person was busy working there. Two teenagers passed me. I slowly took a few steps forward and stopped. What now? Had I not been so determined? But I didn't know what to say in case I got in the shop. My imagination hadn't gone further than opening the door, stepping inside and saying a weak ‘Hi’. A mind that every now and then goes blank and leaves me helpless on my own. Poor poor me. Taking a sigh, I got back.

That wasn't the only night I tried to talk to you and failed: I usually go for a just less than an hour walk in the evenings. I go to the Level, across the park and to St. Peter’s church and then turn back to London road towards Preston Park. 

There are only a few people now, here at the station, coming through the gates and I've talked lots of nonsense. Perhaps if it wasn't the first, and most likely the last, letter I should have carried on writing. It’s not always possible for one to get out of his tangled net and share his ordinary daily experiences with another human being. And not that I am always in the moods of writing though I like it.

I thought about it. It’s not possible nor is good for me to pop in to the shop with the excuse of getting a sandwich and start conversing with you while you have to serve other people or are busy with the duties that need to be done daily. Besides and not less important, many a time it happens that I become as speechless as a wall in the presence of others. Therefore I decided to write down what I possibly couldn't/wouldn't have been able to say without stammering: almost nothing. Has this letter not been torn apart yet? Are you still with this boring letter? I know I've talked too much just like a fool and I hardly know you and vice versa; and only have seen you on two three occasions. I better put a stop right here as I know you are tried now or busy with your study (How much I like to know about your studies. What exactly again your subjects are. And the way you manage your time to read all those four. Do you study after getting back home from work? Are you persistent in your studies? How determined are you to carry on to university? I can imagine that it is hard to manage both working and studying and yet how much order it introduces into your life.)

I like to write to you. And I'm not having the far expectation of any sort of reply as I imagine you cant give any time/priority to it. Nevertheless I look forward to here from you even in a sentence or a word like saying 'hi' or even a gesture that shows some understanding 'Uhumm'. And with that I can write again. But no worries if you cant as hopes die out rather soon within me recently. And it that case I would never disturb you again.