My love I write this letter


Love murmurs or cries out. It is also written. Draw his feelings word after word, it is a gift to make in this month where love is celebrated. It is also a nice way to question the bond that unites us with the other. We asked nine writers to write to the chosen one from their hearts. Nine letters that may inspire you to write a few words of love in your turn …

Since when did you not write to the loved one? Since when have you offered yourself this supreme luxury, a little outdated in a society multiplying the opportunities to communicate, to take the time to isolate yourself to quietly put into words the bond that unites you to it? Sit at a table away, ask yourself, think of the one who has arisen in your existence and upset it, let the verb rise, the images that will know how to translate the intensity of your feeling. Is there a better way than writing to think about love, to understand what reassures us, what worries us, what exalts us in the other? Is there a better way to bring back to memory those moments of sharing that make us unique? A letter is a gift. It slips into a pocket, a bag or a box, reads and rereaves itself, in the metro, in a park, in a waiting room. Sometimes it is enough to look at the square of the envelope so that all the love of the world radiates, because through these few sentences drawn on a paper, the other is there.

We asked nine authors to write to the one who lives in their hearts. The reading of these letters reveals universes very varied, nostalgic, romantic or incandescent. Some have entrusted us with a letter already sent, others have taken the opportunity to write one that the loved one will discover at the publication of the magazine. To each his style, according to his history, the moment of his existence, for it is also for this authenticity, for this freedom, that he or she loves you. Try it, you’ll see.

Letter to VR by Faïza Guène

Hello you,

First it is the first time I write a love letter.
I usually say love, me.
So I’ll start with what I really want to tell you. I have never been bored since I live with you. Well, I mean, we get bored, but if we’re together, we like it. To love to be bored with someone means a lot of things to me. And then I am pleased with ourselves, with what we have done with us. We grew up together. I see myself far, I see myself old beside you. I guess that too is something strong to want to be old with you. To want to get up in the morning near you every day. To have children from you. To make reflections of lovers as I am doing there …
[…]

I paused in my letter. We had a fight this afternoon. The craziest thing is that even arguing with you, I am ready to do it all my life, I realized it. We always reconcile very quickly. You are not very resentful, I do. But I love you to the point that I do not want to waste time making you mouth, whereas instead you can do lots of beautiful things together. I like being laughed for nothing, I like when you’re driving and there’s a long silence that does not bother any of us, I like when you do not agree everything and it does not matter. I like that we look at the pictures of our beginnings as if it had been thirty years that we were together. I love you and I trust. I find myself solid in writing this.

Letter to Eve by Nicolas Rey

Two years ago, I spent the summer with your parents.

I gave you a DVD on a pony club. A story of teenagers in an equestrian center with first loves and broken hearts. Your mother took care of me like a sick child. Your father, Michel, was heroic. He is a great actor with immense sensitivity when he weeps at the aperitif, on the terrace, telling us a scene of the Lights of the ramp. He made grills and attempted a Taoist monk position at the end of a meal. He was a real prince from evening to morning. A prince of the morning, especially. In the morning we were in charge of the kids. So, I discovered a new facet of your dad. Behind the man, there was the leader, Michel Platini, the Duce, the pope of the 0-4 years. You should have seen him, pulled me out of bed at dawn, shouting “Arrraaaache-toi”. I was going to take an icy shower while he was already preparing the bottles. For a summer, your father was my yellow jersey. I was living in his wheel. I was his humble teammate. His shadow in distress. His faithful lieutenant. Another morning, after a sleepless night, we climbed Col Malet. It was a Sunday. You cut your thumb with your left foot in the kindergarten. The village pharmacy was closed. I staggered. Michel entered with the three kids in the village bistro. Four, with me. The harbor was full. Old men were doing their turf. People looked at us with a dirty air. Your father has placed you on a table. He removed your shoe. He knew what to do in difficult situations. In a firm and royal way, he called out to the waiter: “Paulo, I would need alcohol and a compress. Quick, please. ”

Paulo was executed. You must not look too much for your father when you have trouble somewhere. I went to recharge in the toilet thinking that I would like to write a trick for him. A play. A movie. A new one. Whatever. He deserved a role at his height as a man.

My dearest Eve, you are lucky to have parents who love you, who make love, who have just offered you a little brother.
As far as I’m concerned, we’re going to say it’s a little simpler at the moment. Let’s say I’m doing my best to get myself out of a bad pass.

My dearest Eve, there’s a lease I did not see you.
Know that these are just “adult stories,” which, at times, are as sad as the grief of a child.

 

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