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I fall in love with fictional characters too. I fall in love with people in books. Can I love in real life as much as I do within a text?
"Real life" doesn't happen in the same place as the written word does. Book time is distilled time, heavy time. Everything is significant, everything is symbol, every word is a prayer in this religion of language.
Written love encompasses eternity because it is frozen in time. A moment's thought becomes a longstanding condition, an unalterable state-of-being.

I am more dramatic in writing than I am in life.
My emotions can never hope to live up to the way I write them. (Is this true? Maybe. But it might be the opposite.) When you grow up with books equally as important as the real-time world, who can blame you for craving intensity? Or for being confused at the impossibility of flitting between one person's thoughts and another's, panicking at being constrained to one's own mind and experiences exclusively.

Letters. If I write enough I can make myself into a fictional character, I can write the book of me, I can live within the book and make it into an architectural space. Letters between two people build a space between them and the space is stretched taut between two points. Can you live in the space if you are, by definition, one of it's poles? Or is it just spun out of you, like silk from a worm, coalescing into some ephemeral cocoon?

I fall in love with love letters. I will become a nun, and devote myself to the church of love letters, I will marry (symbolically) the God of text, the deity of language, the empty set that can never be defined, the super-word, the meta-cipher.

I will lose myself in the text and allow myself to be deciphered, for the text and I are fully devoted to each other, insofar as we depend on each other to read and to be read. Nothing can be held back because the text displays itself to me in all of its nakedness, everything that it is is there for me to see, and it enters into me to remain forever engraved upon my memory.