22 MAY 2017 AT 14:48

Until the evening of last day when it rained, I had concluded that it is not getting better.
As if all the days I had ever lived left me to the day where I was finally ruined and collapsed on my bed trying to find a way to let go of myself.

There were smaller pains like pain of the dead butterfly out of my window, pain of the everlasting bleak sky, pain of the broken flower pot, pain of the fact that Amanda was never coming back and pain of myself dissipating slowly in midst of all the little pains.
And then there was a bigger pain which was unexplainable but certain, filling my heart with stagnant dense mud making it hard to breathe every next day.
The true thing is that whole of the pain, is always greater than sum of little pains forming it.

At night when it stopped raining, I decided to write a letter.

I wrote, " There is no final point to it, and in a way I like it. I like that there has always been something inside me which needed to be destroyed in order to let this world keep going on. And only now when no eyes are here for my eyes to be seen by them, I could feel that the death of true things is always hurtful."

I never sent it to anyone.

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