Letters, you wrote and did not postJust tied up with simple strings and put on hold
Stashed away in some drawers like a ghost
But ghosts were never to haunt alone
Thin sheets of paper, your handwriting scrawled
Words, every letter, each vowel
Like a bullet
What’s eviscerated, they formed my beating heart, like a boat
Half awake I am woke
By nightmares I wouldn’t know
If this is real or just a fog
If this is coming over me, or just a long walk
Letters you wrote, and cried for
Post-ins, tiny scribbling on my imaginary wall
Like a stabbed wound, it gushed loudly my blood
That is my heart
Half awake I am woke
By nightmares I wouldn’t know
If this is real or just a fog
If this is coming over me, or just a long walk
Into the cold, into the cracks and broken glass
To fuck up what is left and what is us
To let go
Half awake I am woke
By nightmares I wouldn’t know
If this is real or just a fog
If this is coming over me, or just a long walk
How long can a person stare at a bundle of unopened letters, sitting on her table, for the last weeks, all immaculately tied up with strings? How does one loosen those strings, to muster courage from a non-existent source within? The handwriting, undisputedly hers and she were undisputedly mine and ours. It was written under the softest circumstances, despite what was possibly going on inside of her. “For you and you only, love” I traced the dried ink with my fingertips, like I might be, on her tombstone, half-expecting it to suddenly burst into flames. It didn’t, of course, for I’ve lost that ability and it stayed intact, like a quiet structure or a dam just before a flood would come. Or a gorgeous piece of sky just before it’s about to rain on you and taint your every fiber. My heart was pounding fast, like I was diffusing a fucking bomb or the likes, and my hands, I swear to God, I have not smoked a single bloody stick of cigarette my short life, were trembling. I’ve come up with solutions or an easy way out my whole life to avoid this exact situation but here I am and I know that for some reasons, I have to do this. Whether it is for myself, for her or for our love.
I held on to the first letter, dated 22nd of March 2002 and turned it, like some idiot hoping to see a return address when I knew fairly certain there isn’t gonna be one. It was from her heart, every word and punctuations.
The first letter goes like this:
“Dear Love,
I’ve not called you that for a while and I can only tell you how much it’s killing me. I didn’t expect this to be this hard. I mean, I’ve thought I’ve seen it all, you know? Today’s the 5th day that we are broken up and how you took off and nearly got knocked down by an incoming vehicle at the traffic light. I thought I was gonna die when I heard the sudden screech. And it was the very first time in our lives that I’ve seen you lost a temper. You were tugging at the collar of this poor man but you weren’t obviously strong enough to lift him up or do anything further. And I watched, standing afar, hidden by the shadows but I could still clearly see, as your face quickly softened and so screwed up with repentance and guilt and how you wiped your tears defiantly with the back of your hand, for this could never be you, the angry, irrational you, though I love every inch. You didn’t notice me when I walked the other end, back into the park, back into a lonely room and an even colder bed so I could cry.”
The letters were all dated randomly, but all written from the same heart. Perhaps I would write them in here when I have the chance, in a series so I could archive it better. I remembered what I was feeling inside, when I finished the first letter. It was subtle at first, like a slow stream and then the waves and tides came; explosive, emotional surges (see now it’s high time that dam metaphor comes in :P), threatening to drown me, flip me over and then tear me up in pieces. I felt like an aquarium waiting to explode, metaphorically and literally. I recalled my bitter fight with my tears, and anger, and the pain of missing a person this fucking badly, something I really hope no one has to go through. Hey, I’m all new to this, mind you but then again, it kinda always felt like that whenever I would think about her. And to be honest, I’m really tired of it. I wanna think about her and our good times and how all of that would translate to what I am and what I am doing right now, at this time, at this moment, and the next. I wanna think about her and feel a genuine smile just creeping at the corner. I don’t wanna fight anymore, not with myself, and to taint and contaminate her memory. You were a goddess in my heart then and you should remain as so now.
That next morning, I woke up, feeling as if a brick wall was lifted away off me. It was kinda scary, nothing I was expecting at all and I grappled to come to terms. It felt so real, like I’ve given up an enormous part of me along with that battle I called off for good the night before. I have no clue what a recovering alcoholic or drug addict feels but this is probably it. Or close. Like a new lease of life, so confusing, blurry, and full of blinding lights. I became upset when I couldn’t master it. I didn’t know the next thing to being happy or freed, or how to interact with another thing or person without having you crossed my mind and fry my brain. I was struggling, as if without the most God-given natural ability to be well, happy. I’m sure she would laugh her head if she knew.
Last night, at 4 in the morning, I tried to say something that could communicate what I felt and the emotions and habits that I still sort of struggle with. Nothing proud came out of it the first time. And I’m resisting the temptation of blaming the end of the battle my very reason why I am so uninspired now. I can’t write shit and I can’t lose the ability to write and communicate what I feel cause’ then I might have to die. And I believe it’s not time yet. Anyway, here it is, laugh if you must but you know what’s more helpful, leave a comment and tell me what you feel when you finished reading it. It will really lend a hand and I could do the necessary editing. I’ll post the 2nd letter the next entry. Maybe.
