Axioms unproven.

an axiom= something one is prepared to accept as true without proof. x=y, y=z so x=z
Cardinal numbers=numbers that fit into perfect sets. There will always be more numbers than 'natural' numbers (1,2,3,4), so the sets have varying levels of infiniteness, graded according to a Godelian system.

Here is an axiomatic truth:

I adore you, HC.

Here's another:

I need to be touched.

And another:

There are people that wish to touch me.

There are people whose touch I appreciate.

They are not you.

I would appreciate your touch significantly more.

You make me laugh so much, and you are so beautiful.

I feel as though you and I divide into each other, unreal numbers that don't exist. I play with the edges of mathematical theorems and wish for your calm eyes.

I feel as though you and I would be together for always, because I am proud of you. You seem so honest, so  shy, sometimes, and so vulnerable, and I know that you would probably be good for me. You don't smoke, you're excellent at maths, you make me laugh and we could go biking and hiking and fall into each other's arms.

I send you poems with bright wings, burning bright, the depth and breadth and height my soul can reach when feeling out of sight. I've sent it now, there's no way to retract it, because I don't know how to fix it with an algorithm and I can't stop pouring myself out via my keyboard each time I think of you.

A sonnet that doesn't rhyme.

I save all of my best secrets for you.
For your slender arms, your eyes that meet mine
And then flick away, as if ashamed. As
If you know that I cannot stop myself
Gazing at you. I parcel out all of
My secrets, spooling them through the weeks, shot
Through with your algorithms. How is it
That you can't meet my eye and yet I apply
The axioms and find that I might well
Have loved before, just as I do now, but
How this differentiates, over the
Lines of states, figures inked interlinking
You and I. The entirety of my
hidden places, my hope. For you. My best.

This was not what I wanted to write about. I wanted to write about the girl that's soft, but I don't think I'll be with her for very long. I think she will be a diversion, from my consternation as I can't have HC. I think she needs someone, and I do, and she is soft and kind. She was embarrassed that I was wearing a moustache, and I think she might embarrass me. I can't imagine introducing her to friends or family. I can imagine introducing HC. I can imagine being so proud of her that it wouldn't hurt as much, because she is so clever and witty and beautiful, and her voice is like newly sanded wood.

My Aunt is dying, as she has been for many years, and I want to ring her up to tell her that I am sorry that I am not there. I want to tell her that it is alright, that she can die if she wants to, and that she does not owe anybody anything. That I loved spending time with her when I was a child, when she was my playmate, with dark hair, and how I was fascinated by her chair and equipment, and how I used to like eating with her and playing. How I liked her being there, a friendly presence with cold hands and a mug of coffee.

How I am sorry that I did not see her as much as I should have in later years. I wonder, sometimes, what life would have been like if she'd never caught the disease. She'd have grown up as clever as my Father is, and I might have had an aunt with cousins like brothers and sisters. I might have had an aunt who wrote and acted, I might have had... but then, I would not have had my Mother, nor her friends. They met because of you, because Grandma needed Social Services and my other Grandma happened to be a social worker. You have changed me in many ways; you were my confidante when I was young, you made me laugh, you were proud of me. I have never felt shocked or frightened by disabled people because of you. I have got my Mother and my Father, opposite in so many ways, and yet bound together, because of you.

I'm sorry that my Father can't summon the correct emotions for you. I know that you always want more, and he can't give it. He spent too much time being shunted to one side for you as a child, or caring for you, or being compared to his cousin for not being good enough at being a clown, or being blustery. These are not worthwhile qualities, and besides, it is difficult to summon those emotions when your father's dead and your sister is disabled. It was hard for him. He has never said this and never discusses it. Like me, he is secretive, sometimes. He loves you, I think. I don't know what he feels about you, but he can't be the hearty sort of person that you seem to crave. He can't be jolly. He tries, for you, to make you happy, but it's not his style. He is far more than that. He will give you permission to go, if you need it. He is fighting for you to get what you want, which is death, and he would always fight for you, when he can. He wants to calm you, he does care, and I ache for him, and for you. I ache for what your relationship could have been if you'd been well. I ache because neither of you can understand the ways that the other loves, or you can, but you can't reciprocate. He once said something to the effect that he feels bad for feeling ashamed of you, or for not being able to be jovial. He can't help it. He was just a child, and he had so much to deal with. Asking him to subdue his feelings is simply cruel. He has got a right to feel the way he feels, and I feel angry that he is expected to feel a certain way, and sad that you can't have someone that feels that way about you that you care about as much as you care about him. He is more than jovial; he is stoic and brave, and kind. You would say that he is the best brother. I think you are right.

I want to say thank you. Go peacefully. I love you.