Unsent Letters,

You’re the fire and the flood,
And I always feel you in my blood.

-Vance Joy.

Pages lay on the desk, dark ink dropped on the parchment, belying the  blood and scars hiding behind the words.
Unsent letters, of complaint, of anger and despair.
The source and the sink, all of it in one black hole where the totality of her thoughts go to die.
Letters to the absent conscience of a wrongdoer, or to the almost lovers who left her heart just a little more bruised.

Letter to my younger self.
Dear Me,
If you ever are reading this, then I have successfully reached a level of madness from which there is no escape.
I wish I had some advice to give to you, other than to tell you that you will forever be young. Because youth symbolises mistakes, gullibility and daydreaming. They don’t go away no matter how many dreams burn to ashes.
You might be surprised to know, that you’re still inside of me somewhere. Sometimes, when I hug Ma and don’t let go, I know you’re there hanging around somewhere at the back, a sulky child with unevenly cut fringes and a frown.
All I can bring is news of the future, of how it feels to be almost grown up, and I can tell you that it isn’t all that remarkable.
The same confused curiosity with which you examine the world outside right now, you will after ten sweet years.
Nothing will ever change. You will still be unexplainably drawn to some people, and want to cry in the presence of others. The only difference is, you will learn how to resist. You will learn how to step back when you want to hug somebody, and plaster a smile on your face when you want to scream.

Here I am, at the brink, the so called balance point of life’s scale. Start of a phase, beginning, ending, a random crossroad that will soon be forgotten. Always wondering if this moment should be preserved, or forgotten for the sake of better ones? Ten, twenty years, dust on your tongue by the time you’re sixty and life is bleary eyed with the onset of cataracts.
Should I be living now? Is it all right for me to be debauched and hedonistic?
Am I too young still? Too old perhaps? Do you have an excuse, to stop me from tipping headlong into that abyss?
You cry, across the paper- no, stop, remember your dreams.
Dreams, harsh reality stole those before I even woke up. We are all heading towards inevitable collisions, wasn’t that your lesson all along? Tell me again, I’m a poor learner.
Again, you squirm, ask me to stop, to not be angry, to have patience like Mum had taught us both.

Stare at the flames till you forget everything. Take a deep breath, and focus. This is dhyaan. Meditation.

I did it quite well when I was five. Now my head is a cluttered desk. Can’t sweep off fragile expensive things now, can I?
I can feel your disappointment, in what I have become. You wanted me to be an adventurer, did you not? I’m sorry you turned out to be a coward.
Afraid of people, afraid of heights, of spiders, love and of getting lost in familiar roads.
Your adventurer got lost in the catacombs of growing up, of having gravel crumble beneath her feet when she is a hundred feet up, of cheating, lying and getting away with it.
I’m here, sending a message to the broken rat-trap with its molded cheese, to my childhood of Tom & Jerry, Famous Fives and saved up Pokemon cards.
Do you recognise this stranger, would you look up to her? Is she beautiful to you?
Above all- would you want to be her?

You are me, when I was wide-eyed and oblivious. Funnily enough, all the disenchantments have not changed that blankness inside me.
You’ll be this confused forever.
That’s all I can say.
Take care, and don’t despair. You’ll find your way through the plethora of mistakes you made till you’re halfway to paradise with a box of useless memories, a battered up heart and a mind full of music.
Yours in love,
-me.

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