I wasn't supposed to meet you.
I was supposed to rally the people. I had poetic rhythm and eloquent reasoning. I was supposed to see past the gilded throne of the monarchy, not past the blurred drunkenness in your eyes. My words would flow, full of confidence and conviction, I knew it; yet, at your glazed-over grin and blatant admiration, I faltered.
Why?
When I addressed your disregard for my aims, could you tell I was flushed? Could you tell why? Could I? When I saw your smile falter, why did I feel such a victory?
The only victory I have achieved since lies in the freedom and newness of Patria, but I still can't decide why it doesn't hold up to the feeling in my chest that coiled when you joined our cause.
My chest now feels empty. I take up a pen in order to patch over the hole where that bullet entered yours. The bullet meant for me; the bullet that would have made me a martyr for the others, and instead left me a mourner full of unanswerable questions.
Why, after letting all of my friends die for the republic, my republic, did I crumble to hysteria when just one more gave his life for it? Or maybe, for me?
You weren't supposed to bump into me that day; this is the only conclusion I have reached thus far.
Maybe this letter will help.
-E.