Dear anonymous reader,
At one point in my life, I used to be so overwhelmed with certain emotions that the only outburst came in the form of writing. That too, only in letters. No matter how many times I tried creating impromptu stories, I just couldn’t convey the way I felt, as well as I could in a letter, generally addressed to a particular person whether real or fictional, whether known or unknown and sometimes even to myself.
Dear angry lil wolf,
Let the day of today, Friday the 15th become a catalyst for change in you. You have thrived on your “hard to be with” personality but now there’s a requirement in the world to change it. You have asked and demanded such things out of people which no ordinary person could ever or would ever give you. And so, the only persons who cared the most about you were the ones who had little in their lives to care for. Continue reading
Dear Third Best friend
No, this is not a birthday gift or a wish, since I know you’re too cool for all that. But I must say I haven’t been a really good friend these days. And yet you remain, right where you have always been on the hierarchy of friends. I know, I know, the list is stupid. You can’t rate friends as 1st, 2nd and 3rd but it keeps me sane to do so. And even when I call you by your first name or act all mean and rude and you’ve slipped down to number five because you ruined my New Year or disappeared for a month, the fact remains that you are one of my best friends. Continue reading
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.
(Read at your own risk. May cause severe depression and crying episodes to the one it is intended for)
To the one behind the Mask
I’ve never gotten a pain letter before. You see I was told I am a terrible patience stone, too self-involved to actually listen to people’s problems without overshadowing it with my own. Yet, how many has it been? Two, three letters so far? Nah, more if I look deeply into all your letters because there is anguish in all of them. Continue reading
She’s gorgeous, the way some girls are. Girls who walk into a room and own it without owning everyone’s gaze, who don’t look into a mirror because they don’t need to, who drive half the world crazy with their curls, who invoke the testimony of ‘Oh my God’ with their smile, who look as magnificent with no makeup as a blank canvas, alluring and entirely whole
Until
I walk in.
And I see and write and paint their faces with ink on my pages. Until I write letters to commemorate how entirely beautiful they are and always should be, not in how they look, but in how they are.
And I tell them, Girl, the world should be yours. So make it.
Dear plan to travel the world,
I am afraid I might never accomplish you so I must let go of you because expectations lead to disappointments and I am disheartened enough never to dream again. You might have been the reason for me waking up, working and forcing myself to smile every day just for a distant dream that one day I will get to do what I want to do. But I must apologise even to myself for daring to see dreams that were quite unobtainable. Continue reading
you always give me stuff that I was supposed to read, inhale and keep deep into my psyche. i always giving you stuff that you were supposed to keep close to your heart. The things you gave me became obsolete objects on my shelf. The things I give you, you still keep in your backpack. Continue reading
Dear whoever thinks this is for them because there are so many who think every word I write is for them, so sure, take the credit for this one. I am allowing you to.
May you never think of me again and find solace in your life for it can’t be so as long as I exist and my blog does too because you just can’t help looking, taking a peek into what I am thinking, can you? Continue reading
I watched my life as if it were happening to someone else. I did not live it. All the mess I created, unleashing my chaotic mind upon the tangent of relations so carefully accepted, weaved, built upon by myself; the things and people I moved away from, distancing myself, leaving behind just scrapes of memories more unhappy than not, I wonder if someone ever did that to me what would I think of them? Continue reading
