Dear .....,
I don't yet know why I am writing this. It is a vain effort for all it will ever be. And what sort of an effort? A desperate, aimless, disrespectful one? Fret not, I do not mean to be any of those. Sometimes it is better to settle certain things out before moving on, because life plays some cruel tricks often and might want us to see each other every single day for the rest of our lives and I do not want it to be a meeting that either of us runs away from. I want you to know what you presume you already do. So to begin with, I write.
It's half past one in the morning and sleep still evades me. I push myself to all extremes but am still restless in spite of the tiresome travel. I try my best to not wake my parents or my brother in the other room. I go to the kitchen and make myself a cup of tea...Bad idea. The tea which is usually my calm down drug is making things worse today. And for all you might be assuming, the reason was you. 'Me? What did I do?' is what you are saying now. Like you always do. Like you never knew what happened. And if someone else is reading this as well, they might be wondering how head over heels in love or in heartbreak thereof am I bound and hurt. Oh please. Not that. That is neither my cup of tea nor is it something I want to talk about. It was something else I guess. Head over heels is fine. But this time around I happened to be very much in my senses. And everything still seemed to plain repeat itself like some master plan.
Funny, yeah?
It is and I wonder why. Why is it that it is given so much significance? Why so much of attention and glamour to that four letter word? It is just another emotion and as far as I understand, like all its counterparts, it is as useless and as painful. And pain it is. Of a different kind. Because no one seems to ever complain. And there is always the joy attached to this pain. This hell of a pain. All the while I sit and ponder on its intensity, all the while I whine over my utter failure in comprehending it, I stilled loved it. Loved the pain of having loved you when you didn't know. Of having loved you when you never did. Of having loved you when you regretted it. And of having held that as a cherished memory when you went away without looking back. And now I know your expression changing...your lips twisting into that expression of 'like you know'. Yes, make no mistake. This time around, I just happen to know. And yes there is a mad, incomparable joy in waiting for something that will not come...better still, for something that was never there. Yet how could I tell you? What if it hurts? What if you laugh at it? What if I start hating you for it? What if that pain would be gone? What would I do then?
And so I write.
Write because you might read? Nay. Write because I must write. Because this pen has seen me cry. Because it tugs at my hands to hold on to it and tell it what happened. Because it has seen me through the pain and through all the desperate hope. Because its command is for me to obey...blindly, honestly and without fail. Because it is the command of a Love that none can take away. And because it told me it would stay and perhaps...if you have read it till here...it told me that it would tell you too.
I seek not anything now. It's all very fine in my part of the story. I feel relieved and fresh. I have made my decision and will keep up my word...come what may.
Yours always...
P.S. They say that if a writer loves you, you can never die. Welcome to immortality...