Dear you,
This cold weather may be the end of me. I have been trying hard to focus less on the harshness of the winds and more on the comfort offered by home but to be this optimistic, I would require more courage and courage has never been my forte. Do you know how my timid and weak self has always been the bane of my existence? Not that I am complaining. I would never complain. I would never dare to complain about who I am or rather, how I define myself because how can I? After everything I have been through, I must tell my tale of excruciating discomfort with prudent honesty.
I heard about your newfound love for painting. I know you would want to ask how I received all this news about you. I remain unsure about the precision with which this news is being delivered to me. I cannot say that I know everything about you. I just know enough, if enough means that I know everything I need to be able to remember you without memory.. It did come as a shock to me that you have been taking interest in art because the last time we met, I saw you submitting your form for admission to post-grad law school. It amuses me how I say “I met you” as if we have ever met. I wonder if “meeting” is synonymous with “gazing from a distance” in a foreign language. I hope so.
As someone who has always abided by the rules and played by the books, it would not be charming if I do not brief you on the happenings in my own life in this letter. In fifth grade, when I wrote a letter to a friend, my teacher asked me to rewrite it because even though it was “nicely” composed, it did not have enough details about my own life. That, my teacher explained, is the difference between a formal and an informal letter. One may ask how I concluded that this particular letter is an informal one and not a formal one. I claim to know you which makes it a conversation between two friends but how could we be friends when we never had the chance to talk? That’s a lie though. We did cross paths on the 13th of September, 2012 and you asked for directions to Hall number 13. I did not know the directions. I shrugged. You left. That was it. Does that make this letter informal?
It is almost bedtime. I usually compose these letters at this time of the night only. Everyone in the neighborhood is asleep and the house feels haunted at this hour. The perfect time to summon the ghosts and demons that reside within me and type letters with no posting address. I have had trouble falling asleep the last few nights. It is as if every time I close my eyes, I feel suffocated to my core. My medicines are barely helping. When I visited the doctor on Tuesday, she said that I needed to make an effort. She said and I quote, “You need to start communicating your feelings”. I didn’t know how to tell her how often I do that. I write a letter to you every single day. I say everything that I wish I had said before. Every single word that I could not utter in your presence, I have been able to transcribe in these letters. She doesn’t know. She doesn’t need to. Even if she thinks my mental illness is a product of my solitude, I will not be weak enough to reveal my darkest thoughts to a stranger especially when I could not even reveal them to you. My mother used to say that I am caught in the past and that it will never leave me unless I decide to leave it behind. She did not know that I am not caught. I am merely entangled in thoughts of a person who is neither my past nor future. In these letters, you have been more alive than in reality. The more I write, the less there is to say. All the years I spent regretting not speaking to you when I had the chance, I have been able to recover from. I am well now. More than ever. I sleep and eat and work. I do what is required of me to survive. I may lose my appetite at times but I eat well half the days. I even drink more water each day. My medicines are useless but I still take them. No one fixes my appointment with the doctor but I do. I have never been so productive before. I am focused and I have a routine. My doctor is a liar. She says that my mental health is deteriorating with each passing day. She says that I am losing my sense of reality. She says that I exist but in a parallel universe. I even laughed at her face. She fails to understand that it is not an illness, it is redemption. I have no longing anymore. No regrets. I am pleased with what I have become. I lead a simple life with few thoughts and fewer goals. I do not bother explaining it to her. She can pity me if that feeds her ego. If it preserves her peace, I am willing to play by her rules.
This is the hundredth letter. I promised myself that I would write no more than a hundred letters. At the time, it appeared to be a tough bargain. I thought that a hundred letters would limit me. They would limit my ability to undo what I had done. However, it seems reasonable at present. If I had not made that pact with myself earlier in time, I would find myself dwelling over the past like my mother thought I am. I am not and I will not. These letters will stay where they are. They will serve as a reminder of my ability to alter the past. They will become the last possession I hold dear in my life. I shall leave you here. It would be insane to say that this is the end of our communication because one-sided passion remains unfulfilled forever and in unfulfillment, it exists forever.
With utmost brevity and undying concern,
Your stranger.
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