A letter that must not find its way, but might

Dear postman,

I hope this letter gets lost amidst your binary code and the address I never wrote  on the envelope has been abandoned by the person I’m writing for.

I wish I wasn’t an IT animal who thrives off on the attention of virtual strangers and have an incessant urge to vent out my personal feelings and emotions on a public blog. I wish I could sit idly by in an empty room with a fountain pen and white pages, filling up the diary with words I made up in my head but the problem is that my mind is too connected to the keyboard to ever write one good word in cursive.

I wish the people in my life were simple enough to never find themselves on this particular url reading this particular post thinking particularly about the person writing it and the mood she is in right now.

Now that three paragraphs are gone consisting mainly of the narcissistic ‘I’ that I fail to control in my letters addressed to others, here’s to hoping that this letter would be somewhat different. But no promises, since old habits die hard.

You, you.

You are.

You leave me in such perplexed condition that how can one even think about writing you a letter? And what could one write when every single thought is laced heavily by what you do more than what you are? What would be the right sentence to convey the anger/pleasure bursting in the middlest portions of my brain because the day went perfect and the night even more so and it’s my fault for liking flaws more than perfections.

And you have tonnes of those too which is even more perfect so where does the fault lie?

In being so good that one starts doubting it? In feeling bad about the greatest moments because you feel you don’t deserve it? In taking and taking so much of you and unable to give anything in return?

I have learnt it over the years- the art of abundance and you, my counterpart, practice it perfectly even in your solitude. Your logic when life deserves it and emotions when I desire it, your vulnerabilities at just the right time, your words and so many of them, are etched on my skin like the scent of your hands after I’ve held them.

Your eyes scare me because I can’t see past them. Your transparency in everything increases the chances of agony at your every kept secret. You were right when you said you have no lawyer, no petitioner, no judge, no family, no friend, no one to take your side, no one to defend you or for you to depend upon.

But you do realise, that YOU are all that for me, right? You do realise that I don’t need any of them to say I know you, right? You do realise that it doesn’t matter if you are honest or a liar, sacred or a player, religious or a hypocrite, good or cruel, what’s happened to my heart and my mind is irreversible, right?

You must know it when I accept your apologies without a second thought. You must notice how I never keep a sad face around you. You must have seen the way I stopped talking about all the things that once made my heart hurt. You must have read and come to a realisation that I don’t write about people anymore, or even myself, or write at all for that matter. Haven’t you?

You are lonely and alone, sometimes even in the moments when I’m right beside you. Because your eyes are so far lost into something I have not an inkling of an idea about. And it’s not your work, jenab. I know for sure, it’s never work. And it’s not me, those lines that wrinkle your face in those dark moments could never be because of me.

You carry so much in your heart that you cannot share, not because you wish to protect yourself from being exploited by those who wish to use your insecurities against you; though that is one of the reasons; but because you cannot say it to anyone. You haven’t found a person you can unload it upon yet. There’s me. There’s always me, as I keep saying to you but you care too much about my sensitive little brain and my innocent big heart to unveil those things to me. I’ll loose my smile if I hear it and we can’t have that happening, can we?

But isn’t it unfair if this is supposed to be a mutual exchange? Bonny and Clyde. Having each other’s backs. I confide in you and in turn, I shouldn’t get silence. I shouldn’t. Even if it makes me upset for a while, it’s better if I hear it, if I hear you. It’s better for you to have someone to talk to. It’s better than bottling it up in your heart and writing in that god forsaken diary of yours that will abandon you the second its pages run out or the ink dries off or years pass and it gets brittle and deteriorates.

I am not saying I won’t do all that either. But human touch, there’s just no replacement for that. And a shoulder to sleep on is better than a harsh wooden desk any day.

You get so scared when things catch up to you and like a child who is afraid of falling, you make excuses to avoid climbing on to the bicycle all together. You make promises and cry, you whine and get agitated. You act lost and say ‘Why? Why is this happening to me?’

I asked you once why you lie. You said it’s a habit. Bad habits are to be broken.

I asked you again why you lie. You said you do it when you’re scared. And I said, “Then I’m the one you have lied to the most.”

“How?”

“Because your biggest fear is losing me and you would do anything to avoid it.”

But you keep forgetting what you know so well in your bones. No matter what I say, about me being a pathological liar, about believing every word you say because YOU have said it, about not caring about anything, the truth is- you must not lie to me. Not about the big things that you cannot talk to me about. Just say so. Not about little things like- tomorrow, oh, just in 10 mins. I’ll give you the letter, oh the diary, just in two days. Okay, I won’t say a word about this. I promise I won’t mention this again. Nah, I didn’t deliberately do this.

These little things matter more than the big things in life. These little lies pile up, and spit out one simple sentence. You say things you don’t mean, all the time.

So I get scared of the things I believed you meant. Perhaps V was right, you and I were meant for each other. Your ficklish mind, people pleasing personality, momentary truths, lost eyes, loneliness and a craving for love; they remind me of myself. The person I was before I met you.

The problem, however, is that you’ve met me too and you are still like that. I don’t think I can handle another me. I used to think and say it all the time, I’m a hard person to be with because of my mood swings because of my emotional outbursts and narcissism.

I must say you make it too easy to be with you despite your short attention span, your all-time set mood, your tendencies to pick on tiniest details and making it a big thing, your secret narcissism (more so than the evident one).

We are two sides of the same coin, joined in the middle.

I must say, we’ve been flipped quite a lot too by people either wanting your head or pulling my tail. But the truth is, oh the infamous indescribable ‘truth’. The truth is that…

wait till you are in flight to read.

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