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Sonajhoori Maitra

Abstract Tragedy Others


4.3  

Sonajhoori Maitra

Abstract Tragedy Others


Epistle

Epistle

4 mins 366 4 mins 366

Hey,

 

I started the letter with a “Dear……. “. But then it seemed too formal. I mean who starts a letter with a “ Dear” nowadays except for school papers? Who writes a ” letter” even? If you have something to say to somebody, you just WhatsApp that person. Not that I didn’t think about this. I did. It’s just, you can keep a written letter with you, meant for a person you don’t even know,un-posted forever. You can write your heart out on a piece of paper and then crumble it and throw it away. Deleting an entire message on WhatsApp is a much more tedious process.  

 Anyway, before I move out of context again, how are you? It’s been ages since we talked. It feels like a millennium. I remember how close we used to be. I remember how we always laughed when we were together. How we planned to do things which were so impossible that we laughed at our own plans. Yet we planned them. Remember the day you told me, “ Let’s go to the woods today. We might find a unicorn. We will take a bunch of candies with us. Unicorns love candies.” We sat in our made-up woods for hours with all sorts of stale candies filling our pockets and ended up eating them ourselves. Oh, those times! It felt like we were inseparable and even the idea of being apart used to haunt us. Look at us now, living our own lives far apart from each other. So far that even your face has started to fade away. Everything is a blur now. A vague memory of a really good time. It’s so vague that sometimes it feels like a dream. But I guess you can’t hold onto a person forever. Our paths bifurcate after a point of time. Then we meet new people, make new memories and say goodbye to them too. It’s a never-ending cycle. People say that memories remain with us. But trust me they don’t. Even memories fade, especially if it’s a good one. It sounds weird, doesn’t it? But trust me, a bad memory is much more “ memorable” than a good one. When you press a scar, the ancient pain returns, doesn’t it? It’s the pain that speaks out, “ Guess what? Something bad happened to you.” It’s better not to press that scar deliberately. I mean, who wants old wounds to bleed again on purpose? But sometimes, when you have almost forgotten about that wound and you are not too careful with it, it grazes against a rough surface and starts bleeding again. At that time you have no other choice but to scream your throat raw at first and then use first aid on it. Once more the wound heals just to open up again. I wish I could time travel just to taste all the good memories once more. If you sit back and think about it, you'll see that time is the only real thing. It heals, it hurts, it creates and it destroys. Everything happening in our lives has to do with just one thing and that’s time. Maybe that’s why we always plot time on the x-axis. It’s the most independent factor and everything else always depends upon it. See, I’m going out of track again. I just wanted to say thank you for all the good times you have spent with me. You have always given me a hundred reasons to love you but a thousand more not to. No, I’m not saying that I hate you. It’s a complex feeling to express you know, cause I don’t know who I’m writing this letter to. This letter is for a faceless face, for someone I know yet doesn’t know. Maybe, I’m writing this not just to one person but to a lot of them. It’s such a strange feeling when you have a heart full of things to say but don’t know whom to say it to. At that time a pen and paper become your best friend or maybe a keyboard and a screen. You keep on speaking to yourself and once you become empty and void of all emotions, you tear the paper apart, piece by piece, and throw it away, hoping someone someday will find the pieces and tape them together to hear you.

 

I’ll stop here. I’m running out of ink as well as words. I feel like I’ve said enough. My hands feel weary. I am not going to throw this paper away. I’ll keep it. Maybe give it to somebody someday to read. Maybe they can find a real person with a real face and an address to send this letter to. Or maybe it’ll just be you.


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