An open letter to a stolen life

Very dear young woman from the window; first of all, good evening.

You do not know me, of course.
Besides and in the absolute: neither do I, I do not know you. I am a shadow - a passer-by among so many others, a face that your eyes may have once seen, but which your mind has ignored.

Source:pixabay.com

Yesterday evening at twenty-thirty-four minutes and twenty seconds, I had an urgent and silly desire: a desire for an apple. Of apple, yes: you see, in my head there was a picture very precisely, that of a crunchy, sweet, and appetizing apple. She had pastel skin, in green tones, and I fell in love, even if I had forgotten her name - the name of the apple. Very logically and immediately, I went to buy with anguish - precisely not to find it - and envy - envy of projection, projection of the moment when precisely I would find it, precisely when my desire would be satisfied. You see very dear young woman out of the window, you who cut vegetables with a gentle nonchalance that I would call indecent, you see, yes, I accuse you. You see,

When I got there, it was closed. Already. It was too late. Paradoxe then arises: since this shop closes at twenty-one o'clock (and opens twenty-four hours in twenty-four in metaphysical facts), and the road I take to get there takes on average ten minutes, I should have gotten there in time, and taste a well deserved arboricole grail. Yes, but there you were. You see a young woman with strange skin and eyes, I accuse you of having stolen me for a moment. Or rather, it's me. An ephemeral and shameful voyeur, I could not help but look at you for a moment. Your look crossed mine yes, but you ... You did not look. You were busy, you spoke, with your family no doubt: I saw your lips moving. So this is it.

I address this letter to a piece of window-box, open to a life I would have liked to know more. I am sending a message randomly. Who knows who will receive this letter; who knows ... Maybe you, young woman or young man, who will read my letter, will have a smile. Perhaps you yourself will think of a situation where one day you were a voyeur; thief of a shadow of an embryo of someone else's life. I plant a flag and I accuse myself of being human: I accuse myself therefore, beautiful young woman from the window of the street of the apple merchant, I accuse myself of having robbed you a piece of night. Please forgive me.

A stranger.

PS: If you answer my letter, I promise to give it back to you.