In my last letter to you.

In all the letters I’ve ever written to you, I’ve talked about how I admired everything right from your smile, to how you slept with your slightly open eyes. I’ve written paragraphs about how your ocean eyes were the kind of brown that put all the other colors to shame, and every time I was asked ‘what is love?’ I’d utter your name. 

In all the letters I’ve ever written to you, I’ve painted pages with all the colors we were made of, right from that ridiculous grey shirt you loved and I hated, to that tangy blue mock-tail we’d buy only for me to waste it. It was during this time, that I got way too invested. 

I realised that right from my first letter to you, I’d only ever mentioned the pretty parts the world had already seen. Then, I wondered, that if there was a first letter, shouldn’t there also be a last?

And my last letter to you may not be this colourful.  

I haven’t written to you, or about you in an eternity, but in my last letter to you, I will paint the pages in black, white and the same shade of grey as that ridiculous shirt. Reminiscing our time together felt as blue as that mock-tail that I’d still order every time at that fast food joint, so as to understand why you liked it so much, and I didn’t. I threw my guard away trying to fit into your idea of flawless, and little did I know, you weren’t all that spotless either.

In my last letter, I will make sure to remind you of the time when you chose to be a field of magnetic rocks instead of my compass, and watched my mind scatter all over the place, instead of giving me direction.

And let me ask you this, if holding on sometimes is really more painful than letting go, then why did holding on to you feel like I was fighting for my last breath as though it were to make me immortal? And why did letting go feel like I was deprived of the one and only moon this world was ever given, to live through every night dark, enough to remind me, that you chose to walk away?

My last letter to you will talk about how every memory of you is now stored in the least accessible part of my conscience, and I don’t look for excuses to flip through the worn-out pages anymore.

Because if you and I were a book, it’d be a one-time read that teaches readers lessons in the end. Lessons like, the tighter you try to hold on to people, the further they go, and all that glitters is not gold. In the end, I had to love you enough to let you go.

In my last letter to you, I will draw us a map to see how far we’ve come, from back when we planned dates that never happened, to now, when we’re poles apart and I realise, me letting go was difficult for you to comprehend.

And let me tell you this, holding on is more painful than letting go because immortality is a myth, and the sun still rises every morning reminding me that even the darkest, coldest nights come to an end. Just like we did.

My last letter will be the last time I write about you, because you’re not here anymore and my world still turns, the ocean waves still roar, and the trees still shed their leaves. You’ve started wearing that shirt again, I don’t buy that mock-tail anymore, and I now love harder than ever before.

So my last letter, is me expressing my gratitude to you.

I guess this was it. My last letter ever, to you.

- a writer who won’t write about love anymore.

TheRword

xx

excerpt from a love story in my brain, that will never hit the public eye.

He who perceives the Self everywhere never shrinks from anything, because through his higher consciousness he feels united with all life. Grief and delusion rest upon a belief in diversity, which leads to competition and all forms of selfishness. With the realization of oneness, the sense of diversity vanishes and the cause of misery is removed

My war against me.

One minute, I'm at peace. The next minute, I'm scared. Of? Something only known to myself. Something that walks in on my happiest self. Something creeping up on me as I write this. I haven't been able to write for myself for a while and I wonder why? I've been too good at letting go of things, emotions, people, whenever required. I look back at how some knew me for the longevity of my emotions for people. I know that this isn't the end of time, or the point where all of human labour returns to dust, but why do I feel like whoever I'm becoming, pushing through, will never let me go back to the girl who once felt too much? The human in me is fighting an apocalypse against my brain that's trying to kill the girl who felt too much, because a dead part of me doesn't want her to die. But then my dad told me, some days back, "It's never just a piece of you that dies. It's always your entire being. Because your heart realises you need a stronger emotional structure to fight what's to come. So it destroys the old you. Yes it hurts, and you'll always wonder why, but the answers will come when you're least expecting."

And somehow, these words made all the difference in the world that there was to make. But I'm still scared. Of? Something that's only known to me. It makes me want to put my heart and soul out in the open but then it also makes me wanna remember every time someone walked by, and steered clear of its way. Reminds me of how some took it, and gave it back half broken. Reminds me of how it's so bruised, yet so shielded at the same time, that it doesn't allow me to give it away anymore. I hate how I hurt people because of the way I am. It's not that I don't love, I do, but just not enough to give you my heart. The only person I trust with that at this moment, is me. And I swear, it's enough. You must be wondering then what it is that I'm scared of.

It's exactly this. Keeping my heart so close to me, so protected inside my cage, that I forget how giving it away ever felt.

- The R word

xx

It was not the apple it was Nutella

Just a concept

I don't belong to any country, I belong to this vast universe.. why be confined to small prisons created by priests and politicians?

“I like the scars because I like the stories. Bravery, stupidity, pain—none of them come free.”

— Jessica Martinez, Virtuosity

‘She was too pure for life,’ he said sadly. ‘Too pure and too good and too beautiful.’

Ralph Ellison, Invisible Man (via the-book-diaries)

The broken heart. You think you will die, but you just keep living, day after day…

Charles Dickens, Great Expectations (via books-n-quotes)

“Life wastes itself while we are preparing to live.” - Ralph Waldo Emerson

“Try not to be a man of success, but a man of value.” - Albert Einstein

My heart smiles with the thought of you