A letter to myself...

I began by writing you a letter. But what use would that be. It’s best to put it here, where no one would read it. Not even you…

So much to feel. So much to dream. So much to discover. So much, yet I can’t find peace…where do I find peace!

I know, I need to move on. Let go. Somewhere I always knew that. And somewhere I always kept hoping that it wasn’t true. Always expecting a fairy-tale end.


I still remember the way you said definately. Loud and clear, in case I didn’t make a mistake this time. It stung me somewhere. Definately. Definately. Definately Do Not!!! I suppose I had to hear it, from you.


But how am I supposed to realize that the man who says he likes writing to me, actually just likes writing. To anyone. The man, who makes irrelevant references on his blog, is only making irrelevant references. Or was he just flirting with availability. That I might be sensing the non-existent. That Dev was a real person with real feelings and not just someone’s friend. That my life had moved two years and my mind was still stuck in the past somewhere. That my imagination had become more potent than reality. That everything was just an illusion.

And then, to make up for the lack of sensibility, I try to look for sense in love or the lack of it. As if to defy fate I refuse to accept it. Question myself. Are we really mere puppets of circumstances? Don’t ‘we’ create and destroy. Then, aren’t ‘we’ responsible for everything that happens in our lives? Maybe I couldn’t feel your pulse. Or breathe life in your heart. Make it dance. Maybe I understood you a little less. Maybe I was a little more selfish. Or a bit inexperienced. Maybe I …


But how does it matter now. You are gone, hopefully to nicer and happier things.

You know I met an old school friend yesterday. Mostly cause I wanted to go out and be with someone who didn’t know the “you” in my life. Every time I said something about myself, he said he knew. Apparently, he could just make that out, even though he’s never really ‘known’ me and it’s been twelve years since school. And I looked at him and smiled, mostly wondering and recollecting. Recollecting that even you had said few things about me with such obviousness. Wondering why you couldn’t make out how much I felt. Why you couldn’t feel the warmth. Why the man I could do anything for, couldn’t feel the warmth I had for him. Obviously, something was wrong.Or maybe you did feel it but couldn’t reciprocate. Maybe you did know it but consciously avoided confronting it. Maybe, I was not your type. Maybe you saw no future. Maybe I didn’t quite fit in your calculations. Maybe your heart was engaged, somewhere else. Maybe you were suffering far more. Or maybe nothing really matters much to you now. Maybe…


I still smile when I remember your anecdotes, idiosyncracies, whispers, your laughter, and your voice…even though it’s been two years. I have a mental image of you, which doesn’t seem to go. And no, I never stopped. Only thought at a point of time that friendship would be a good way of keeping in touch. At that time, that’s all I wanted. Atleast to be in touch.

I wonder how much time it’ll take to realize that we’re never really going to sing and dance and laugh together. Ever.

Maybe a part of me will always love you like a silly schoolgirl, like the one who wants to just run to you and hug you, the kinds who’d just love spending time with you…whatever you’re doing, the kinds who’d love to flirt with you, play with you, sing with you and fight with you. The ones who are dying to return home, just to tell you everything. The ones who can see your flaws and realize that you’re just human, the kinds who completely adore you but never find the right words for it. Those kinds. And then one day, like any other day…that part of me would be lost for good.


A good friend tells me that I must be obsessed. That this is not love. This is childishness. That if it was real love then I should be able to let go. That I should have done that two years back. That in my obsession I am hurting two people. You and me.

That it is always about what I want. I want to be with you, I want to dance with you, I want to walk up the hill with you, I want to laugh with you…always me. That in my blindness, I have become very selfish. That I have created my own happy world where I actually think you are besides me in some way or the other. And that, in the end it is just my imagination and nothing more.


And if all your friends tell you this in one form or other, you are made to rethink. To rethink whether it was just a delusion. It was.


I hope you never read this. Obviously, I am making a fool of myself. It is tragic that I know that and realize that and still go about doing it.


I hope you keep writing. Any place, any name. Write for yourself. New characters. New situations.

I keep picturing that few years from now; I’d pick a book from the shelf with your name on it. And smile.


I’ve said goodbye so many times just to come back again, that it is a bit embarrassing.


Bhalo theko.