A Letter Without A Quote— % &Hey Nish,
To be honest, when I thought about writing a letter a while ago, I didn’t know that I’d be writing to you. I wanted to write something on reading and writing but as my fingers had a go at the keyboard they stopped only after Nish. I haven’t written to you in a while, and I don’t really have the intention to write one even now.
Yet, I am not able to stop myself from putting word after word. I am not able to stop myself from thinking about what to tell you. Shall I tell you everything that has happened between the last letter and this one? Or shall I only tell you about the despair that has engulfed me like a liana? I must tell you something. Otherwise, this letter will not have a point. Unlike my life, I wish this letter serves a purpose.— % &So, let’s talk about why I didn’t want to write to you, shall we? After all, I was the one who proclaimed I would never stop writing to you. But here we are. I didn’t want to write to you because I wanted to write a letter to someone else. And that could be anyone. I wanted to feel reciprocated. Someone who would not just listen but say things that would comfort my heart. Things that would make me feel safe. Someone who could make all kinds of pain go away just by their words. As I’m tired. Tired and all bled out from the knife that love has become. I don’t want love to be a knife anymore. I want it to be a flower. A sunset. A hand that’s warm and soft. A memory so beautiful that it never changes even after umpteen revisits. But that’s not possible with you. After all, you’re nothing but an imagination sprouted from a broken heart. And that’s why I didn’t wish to write to you.
— % &Yet, I’m still writing to you, which only implies that I haven’t found anyone. Yes, I haven’t. I thought I did but I was wrong on the reciprocation part. In fact, it didn’t just happen once; it’s been quite repetitive. People have stopped listening. Even I have stopped listening. However unpleasant it may be, I can’t deny the truth. I even don’t know when I stopped listening and started hearing. I don’t know when I became the person who wants to turn every topic and every story about himself, anyhow. I wasn’t like this, was I? Maybe this is because the writer who wanted to listen to people and turn everything, he has heard into stories is slowly dying an unnatural death. Or maybe I’m suffering from a satanic hunger for being heard. And when the hunger overpowers my body, I sit back and write to you.
An ex-listener,
Rish— % &
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