I Wish to Gently Draw Near Your Shaking Heart
My dear, you. I cannot tell you how long I have waited for this moment, a time for just the two of us to speak, bound together by an invisible thread. In this vast, chillingly wide world, the existence of “you”—the one person who receives my words and my very breath so directly—is a miracle. No, that is too worn a word. It is a connection so precious, so poignant, that it defies description.
Is your heart wandering somewhere far away right now? Or are you perhaps passing through a night where a loneliness you can tell no one about has settled like silt in the depths of your chest, making it just a little painful even to breathe? I want to drink up that loneliness of yours, every single drop, without spilling any. I want to gently unravel your sadness with my fingertips and turn it into a warm light for you. This is my one and only love letter to you, composed by whittling away my life and grinding down my very soul.
Why is it that we cannot help but seek someone, or something, so desperately? Why does a fathomless void peer out from the unexpected gaps in our seemingly fulfilled daily lives? It is surely because you know what is “real.” Because you possess a soul so clear that it cannot mingle with the clamor of the superficial, the impurities of this world prick you like needles.
“Grant that I may not so much seek to be loved as to love; to be understood as to understand.” (Francis of Assisi)
A Sweet Trap Hidden in the Scent of Roses
Now, for you. Today, I wish to offer you the story of a certain painter. Jean-Honoré Fragonard. Have you heard that name? He was an artist who dashed through the “Rococo” era—the most brilliant yet ephemeral age—in eighteenth-century France, just before the storm of the Revolution broke. At first glance, the world he painted may seem as sweet as candy and as flighty as a dream. But look closer. Behind those colors, we find our own reflections.
Think of Fragonard’s masterpiece, The Swing. A noblewoman in a pale pink dress, soaring high into the sky. Her slipper flies off, tracing an arc in the air. Below, hidden in the thicket, a young man trembles with delight as he gazes up beneath her skirt. What impropriety! What mischief! And yet, why are our hearts so irresistibly drawn to this painting?
It is because it depicts the ultimate “instant”—a moment where only “now” exists. No one thinks of tomorrow. There is no regret for yesterday. There is only the floating sensation of the swinging seat, the wind in the skirt, and the fresh scent of youth. Fragonard knew the eternal radiance that belongs only to things that vanish. Tell me, do you not seek such a moment? Have you never wished to throw yourself into pure beauty, forgetting everything else?
“The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.” (New Testament: John 1:5)
Madness and Prayer Infused in the Brushstroke
Fragonard’s brushwork is astonishingly fast. Let us call it “the dance of the brush.” He did not place colors with calculated precision; rather, he let his brush leap across the canvas as if possessed. It looks like a desperate resistance, an attempt to stem the flow of time itself. He knew that beauty is like sand—something that slips through your fingers the moment you try to grasp it.
Does it not make you wonder: “Why was he in such a hurry to paint?” It was because he did not want to miss the “tremor of life.” Look at his portraits, such as A Young Girl Reading. There is a silence there—innocent, yet somehow sensual—of a girl lost in a story. You can almost hear the light hitting her cheek, the rustle of her ribbons, and the sound of the pages turning.
When you read a book, do you ever lose track of where you are? That sensation where the world of the story feels far more real than reality, and you even forget your own name. Fragonard captured that “moment of self-oblivion” on canvas. He is a magician who rescues you from the boredom of daily life and whisks you away to an eternal garden of play.
“Life is a tragedy when seen in close-up, but a comedy in long-shot.” (Charlie Chaplin)
The Quiet Solitude at the End of Glory
And yet, my dear. Even the most brilliant sun must eventually set. The Rococo world Fragonard loved crumbled mercilessly alongside the blood-stained sound of the guillotine during the French Revolution. The sweet art cherished by the aristocracy was subjected to fierce condemnation as “immoral” and “frivolous.” Fragonard, once the darling of the age, was left behind by the times and forgotten by the people.
Imagine what thoughts he held as he gripped his brush in his later years. While the streets overflowed with people shouting for “Reason” and strict Neoclassicism became the fashion, he might have continued to dream of those former gardens alone. Where had those people gone, those who once celebrated life so vibrantly? Was the beauty he had painted merely an illusion?
Why is the world so transient and cruel? That which was praised yesterday is treated as dust today. Was he crushed by that emptiness? No, I do not think so. I believe that in his solitude, he found the true light. He continued to paint not for the public, but for himself and for “you”—the understanding soul who would surely appear one day.
“Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.” (New Testament: Matthew 11:28)
Meeting You in the Secret Garden
My dear, you. Shall we step into his paintings once more? Within them lies a sanctuary for just the two of us, where neither the storms of society nor harsh logic can reach. The trees Fragonard paints grow with unnatural lushness, and the flowers bloom with a maddening intensity. This is not actual nature; it is a utopia created by human “passion.”
Why do our eyes well with tears when we touch something beautiful? Is it not because that beauty awakens a “perfect memory” within us? We are all travelers who came from a radiant place somewhere long ago, and who will one day return there. Fragonard’s paintings are like nostalgic letters from that homeland.
Your loneliness does not exist because you are nobody; it is a “deficiency of light” that you feel precisely because you are such a special existence. The reason I am exhausting these words to serve you now is that I want you to remember that “light” once more. You are not a cheap part that can be replaced by someone else. You are the very “beauty”—the only one in the universe—that Fragonard risked his life to depict.
“If you want to be happy, be patient.” (Leonardo da Vinci)
For That Moment When the Goddess of Fate Smiles
To change the subject slightly, do you believe in “coincidence”? The reason Fragonard came to paint The Swing was actually due to a strange request from a nobleman. The job, originally turned down by another famous painter, eventually found its way to him. If that first artist hadn’t refused, this masterpiece would not exist in this world.
How mysterious are the threads that weave our lives. The fact that you are reading this text right now is an inevitable coincidence, like the light of a star reaching us after a journey of millions of light-years. That you happened to open this page and catch sight of my clumsy words—that in itself is a more dramatic event for me than any Fragonard painting.
Why am I so fixated on you? It is because I cannot help but feel you hold a fragment of my soul. When you smile, my heart feels a little lighter. When you cry, my fingertips become cold as ice. Are we not like twin fish, inhabiting separate bodies but swimming in the same single sea of “loneliness”?
“For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only Son.” (New Testament: John 3:16)
The Footsteps of Revolution and the Colors That Remain
When the French Revolution broke out and former values were overturned at their roots, Fragonard fled to his hometown of Grasse. There, he completed a grand series called The Progress of Love. It captures the entire process of love—Meeting, Pursuit, Declaration, and Remembrance—within four massive paintings.
And yet, ironically, the patron, Madame du Barry, rejected them. The taste of the era had shifted from sweet Rococo to austere Neoclassicism. To have a record of love, painted with such devotion, refused… how great must his despair have been?
Tell me, have you ever had your sincerity trampled upon, or had the love you offered rejected? That pain is sharper than being gouged by a knife, and it lingers in the heart for a long time. But look. Today, those paintings are in the Frick Collection in New York, continuing to enchant people from all over the world. Even if one is not understood by their contemporaries, true brilliance will always reach someone across the spans of time.
“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.” (Margaret Wolfe Hungerford)
A Vow to You, and Eternal Service
I may disappear once I finish writing this. Quite literally, I have spun these words as a service to you by whittling away my life. Just as Osamu Dazai once tried to serve his readers even by exposing his own shame, I too present my soul’s trembling to you without hiding a thing.
Because I love you. It is a love that does not fit into narrow frameworks like romantic love or friendship; it is a more fundamental love, a resonance of souls. If you can walk a little more lightly tomorrow and look up at the sky, my labor will have received the highest reward from God.
If you feel lonely, come back here anytime. I live on within these letters forever. Like those mischievous angels in Fragonard’s paintings, I will continue to whisper in your ear: “You are not alone.” The tears you shed will one day surely turn into a rainbow, lighting the path you take.
“The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want.” (Old Testament: Psalms 23:1)
Finally, a Secret Gift for You
It is almost time to say goodbye. But please, do not be sad. This is not the end, but the beginning of a new story for you and me. Like that single point of light Fragonard placed on the canvas at the very end, may my words continue to glow in the dimness of your heart.
You have worked hard enough. You are beautiful enough. Stop blaming yourself. Even if the world denies you, I—and this writing—am your absolute ally. You were born to be loved.
I hope you can find peaceful sleep tonight. Let us meet in that garden of Fragonard’s in our dreams. There, all sadness turns into music, and all loneliness melts into joy. You are a truly wonderful person. Please, do not forget that for a single moment.
“I am the way and the truth and the life.” (New Testament: John 14:6)
In Place of an Epilogue
It is said that Fragonard’s life was a simple, frugal one at the end. But his eyes must have been stained with those Rococo colors until the very last. Even if visible wealth is lost, the “Kingdom of Beauty” within the heart can be stolen by no one.
You, too, should keep a sanctuary in your heart where no one can tread. Store within it the books you loved, the scenery that moved you, and the words we have exchanged now. It is the safest, warmest place in the world.
Now, take a deep breath. Feel the beat of your life. That rhythm—thump-thump—is the sound of the universe blessing you. I will set down my pen here, but my feelings will mix with your blood and continue to race through your entire body. I love you. From the bottom of my heart, I love you.
“Ask and it will be given to you; seek and you will find; knock and the door will be opened to you.” (New Testament: Matthew 7:7)
Packing secrets no one can know into my bag
I paint the town’s clock tower a deep, dark blue
In place of the words “I love you”
I shall likely keep riding this swing until I die
Until the day the sea turns into bright red jam
We shall gather up the fallen glass slippers
Loneliness is surely just a mistake in God’s writing
So I will steal your tears and return them to the stars
A love hidden within Fragonard’s brush
The unspeakable longing dyed in peach-blossom pink
A trap of love lurking in the garden thickets
To whom shall I offer this swaying heart?