Sweet, tiny Savannah,
Your heart was made to love a musician's.
It was carved by hand from a tree some boy with a guitar and a heart full of melody must have sat underneath on a warm June afternoon some time long before you were born. This is the only explanation for it.
I suppose many girls say the same thing:
"I just want to date a boy who sings and plays guitar."
"I have a thing for musicians."
Perhaps this is too common of a verdict. Perhaps you're heart is no different from the hearts of those other girls. Perhaps craving the heart of a musician is just something that happens to girls your age.
But I think you know deep within your frame, burrowed under your ribs, that this isn't true. I think you know, writhing within you, straining against the weight of your organs, that your heart was made to crave the heart of a musician.
It's always been like this. You've always longed for the touch of someone who felt as deeply as you. Someone who could talk for hours about life, fears, love, struggles, darkness, beauty, pain, and sensuality. Someone whose own heart cannot function without being able to partake in the creation of art, the stringing together of words, the entwining of melodies to feelings of wrath and joy and pain and desire.
Concerts are spiritual moments in time for you.
There's something wildly alluring about watching musicians perform. Sweat dripping from their skin, flung to the audience with every head toss. You watch in anxious anticipation, hands extended to those musicians you're particularly moved by, not sure what you're hoping for (a touch, maybe), but yearning to somehow soak in their presence.
They're messy and raw and drenched to their shoes in sweat, and you can't help the longing in your gut to get impossibly close to them.
Perhaps this alone doesn't set you apart in your lust for a musical heart. That's fair.
But your longing dives deeper still. A musical heart is sensitive, emotional, unbridled. It's a heart driven by love for words and rhythm and passion, not a love for money or stability or complacency. A musical heart is one that knows beyond all doubt what the remedy for pain is.
Savannah, your heart is so perfect for - so ready to love - this kind of heart.
But there's a great divide between being ready to love and being loved, and I'm not sure if the latter will ever come.
There's more to loving a musician than attending concerts and memorizing lyrics. Falling in love at a distance is dangerous, and I have to warn you, because I know how fragile your heart is.
You can't expect to float through life as a wallflower, waiting for the things you want to gravitate toward you.
When they told you that a meek and mild heart would draw in a guy worth investing your heart in, they were wrong.
Meek and mild is great. Fantastic. Marvellous. Extraordinary.
But it can become a trap.
You have to be brave. You have to speak. You have to bloom. Because if you don't, no one will ever know who you are.
The world is not a place where wishes are granted and dreams come true for those who are quiet and docile.
You have to ask.
But, here's the terrible news:
you won't.
Because, by the time you catch on that only those who chase after what they want see the pay off, you'll be mounted to the wall, pinned into place, your leaves stapled to the drywall. You'll have no idea how to exist in a world where the world doesn't just pan out for those who merely pray for it to be so.
By all means, pray. Pray to God that this aching in your chest will be eased, that these reaching fingers will find someone tangible to hold onto. Pray.
But don't expect to see anything happen.
Savannah, your heart was made to love a musician's. It was hand-crafted from the same tree that was cut down and hollowed out into a violin, a guitar, a piano. When you hear the gentle picking of guitar strings, you'll feel it resonate in your chest, calling out to it's cousin who lives in your chest and pumps blood through your veins.
Savannah, you were made with the desire to hold a musician, to soothe him, kiss his cheeks, run your fingers through his hair, and make him tea on restless nights of angry song-writing.
But Savannah, who says you're different from all the other girls who feel the same way?
I have to tell you, I have no idea how to end this letter tonight.
I sit here with headphones pressed to my ears, volume turned up so the bass drowns out the sound of this hungry heart of ours, sorrow thick in my throat.
Because I know that you will always be a wallflower. You will never ask for what isn't offered to you. You will break your gaze when someone stares too long into your eyes.
You've been like this for so long, I think you think that to be anything other than a wallflower is shameful, selfish. Scary.
It's scary. It is. I know it is.
I'm not altogether convinced that your heart was only made to love a musician's, though. I've started to think this is how you're meant to be for the rest of your life: quiet, meek, ashamed of taking up space.
Alone.
Maybe that's not a bad thing.
But you have to let go of this idea that God has a man picked particularly for you; that He's just waiting for you to reach some romantic potential until He has your paths intersect.
(There's more on this, but not tonight. Your heart needs a rest after this.)
Nothing is waiting for you.
Go looking, or don't bother at all.
But you are valuable, even though it's hard to see sometimes.
Love,
Yourself
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