Letter 1
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When a person feels something too intensely, they become, in a way, numb. I am well. Don't worry about me. I will be fine. Every time I feel your presence, I understand just how lucky someone is to have you. Why didn't I arrive with that fortune? Today I don't want to speak of love anymore. What difference would it make to say it, tell me? Can words ever truly say everything? You know this better than I do. You are the kind of person I have always searched for in my heart. Today I have found someone I truly, genuinely want. Someone who, once found, makes you willing to compromise on everything. If I had you for a lifetime, what then would happen? I truly don't know. I know nothing. Today I am so very tired. I have asked the Creator for so much that now I no longer wish to ask for anything. Perhaps I have never wanted anything the way one should want, which is why I never received what I desired. Perhaps there is some fault in how I ask. I know nothing. Whether I will ever have you, I cannot say with certainty, but for all that I have wanted, I ask nothing more from this life.
You are not my destination, yet with you I could pass through an entire lifetime in the blink of an eye. You are someone, you are something. I want you so desperately—do you understand that? You know, I didn't speak to you all day today! Perhaps you didn't even notice, but I cannot go on like this. I don't know what to do, but you have seeped into every fiber of my being. I don't know which way to turn; nothing brings me joy. If I remain this way without speaking to you, perhaps I will grow even more ill, but what else can I do? I will never have you the way one truly possesses another. Which way should I go, can you tell me? I feel as though I might die this very moment. Nothing brings me any comfort. If only I could escape from myself! I cannot breathe, yet I cannot speak, I cannot bear anything. Nothing feels right to me anymore.
Letter 2
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What do you do awake at night? Get some rest these past few days, please! If you must write, write during the day. And whoever it is you want—love them! I won't say another word! I'll only speak to someone willing to hear my complaints.
This person! Are you listening to me? You're driving me absolutely mad! I went to sleep after fighting with you, and now look—I see you even in my dreams! You're absolutely insufferable! I found you on the roof of my house. I went up to the terrace in the evening. There you were, sitting on a swing, writing. I was so furious seeing you! And yet I was so happy too! I thought, today I'll finally have you close.
My heart is unsettled. That's why I'm tormenting you. Sorry for the bother. What I really want is for you to know everything about me. And yet you ask me nothing! I want you to strike me with all your might, so that blood pours from my entire body, my lips swell, marks appear on my back, and I whimper in pain. Let my eyes go blind, let my hands die from the ache, let marks appear on my back, let your hands run across my whole body. Hit me hard, again and again.
# For All My Failings
For all my countless mistakes, for every rudeness, for loving you even a fraction less than I should have, for treating you poorly, for judging you—for all of it, you wound me. You strike me again and again, flatten me like boards, hurl me down, leave me bleeding. Do whatever you wish to me. And then, when day’s end comes, it’s you who mends me whole. You spread balm on every wound I bear. No one will see, no one will know. Only I will know—that you touched me.
Why won’t you want to understand anything? Anything about me? If I were to stumble badly, would that please you? I want you to hold me back with all your strength. So that no one can take me away, so that no one can bewitch me with their honeyed words. I want you, in the end, to stay with me. If you would just once say that I belong only to you, I swear I will belong to no one else, ever again. Why don’t you want me? I will stay silent always. I will say nothing to you. I only want you beside me, no one else. You understand that, don’t you? Then why are you letting me go like this? If another held this hand, would that make you happy? If another kissed this forehead, would you like it? Tell me! Why are you saying nothing at all?
Do you remember that first day we met? Your hand touched mine. And then you—yes, you—forced chicken popcorn into my mouth. I kept saying, look, someone we know might see us. If they see you feeding me from your hand like that, what will they say? And you said, let them say what they wish. I will feed my angel, what’s it to anyone? And then you did, one piece after another. And the sauce on my lips—you wiped it away so tenderly. That day you were so affectionate with me. Why do you treat me with such care? Don’t I want to care for you too? Hmm?
That day I drowned in your eyes for such a long time that I lost all sense of myself. It wasn’t until I got home that I understood—you had ruined me, utterly. Before we met that day, you called me in the morning. You said we should eat lunch together at KFC, the one on Green Road. To come with time to spare. I agreed to your wish. And in between, you said something—something that still echoes in my ears! That day you said, ‘Look, in this world, if after my mother I had to place someone in a position of honor, it would be you. You are that person who wants my good without any ulterior motive, who has never asked anything of me, never wanted to show off, never expected anything in return—you simply want my good. That’s why I will give you that place, right after my mother. My wife will want my good too, but there will always be a selfish reason in it. Because I am her husband, she will want my good for that reason. But you want my good without expecting anything. Write down these words I’m saying today, along with the time and date, in a notebook.’
Believe me, when I heard those words from you that day, I wept like a madwoman after you hung up. You gave me such a place? Me, after your mother? This is the greatest gift of my life. What more could there be to say after this! I cried so much over what you said that day.
You have honored me greatly. Just love me a little less, that’s all!
Listen, don’t hold me so close to your heart. I won’t torment you, won’t scold you, won’t strike you—I’ll only love you. Love you so very much…I feel like weeping, holding you tight! You know, today I saw it on the way—that old film, *Paths of Destiny*, with Suchitra Sen and Uttam Kumar. Suchitra Sen loved Uttam Kumar so much, so deeply, that she nearly went mad. In the end, it was Uttam Kumar’s love that healed her. What fortune, tell me, to receive such love! And my man doesn’t even love me properly! What cursed luck is mine! I had everything, I have everything, except one thing—the love of the person I hold dear. If you loved me, I would be the richest person on earth. Bill Gates and Musa bin Shams would pale beside me then. That man doesn’t love me at all!
I have loved you for so many years now. I fear losing you just as much as I fear that if one day I love you even a little less, I would be betraying something within myself. We never made time for our love, never spoke of so many things. Whenever I tried to tell you something, I held back, again and again. Countless times. Some people know how I feel about you, the pull you have on me. My friend Mitu knows—she knows how I love you. She keeps saying she hasn’t seen love like this in this modern age. Many boys fancy me, love me, propose marriage. Nothing appeals to me. You would surely say, “Get married, be happy.”…As if that’s all there is to it! Tell me, is happiness of the mind or of the body? Keep that answer to yourself.
I have never sat in prayer and asked the Creator to make you my life’s companion. I only asked that you find whoever you truly love. Your happiness is my happiness. I’m so angry with myself these days! Why didn’t I ask for you to be mine? If I had prayed for that, I would be the happiest, most fortunate person on earth. Rich too.…But you cannot be held with anger or neglect! You must be kept in love, in tenderness, deep within the sanctuary of one’s heart.
I have restrained myself all this time. Now I cannot anymore. Why this wall between us? The way you meet with others. In coffee shops or elsewhere. Hasn’t it ever occurred to you—that person who has never asked you for anything, never wanted a call or a message or to meet? Am I so hideous to look at? Don’t you like me at all? Fine then. Stay with them. Meet with them. Meet your own people, those from your city. They’re the ones who truly belong.
And yet I tell you—listen—if ever you feel like weeping terribly, come to me. If ever your eyes need rest, come to me. If your hand aches from writing, come to me. If that back pain flares up again, if you desperately need to go to someone, come to me. If everyday life becomes unbearable, then come to me too. If you have a terrible headache, come, and I’ll run my hand over your head. Even if you fall ill, come, and even if it’s contagious, still come. I am not afraid, for I am already afflicted with love-sickness, and all other ailments pale before it. If you crave solitude, come to me even then. If you want to escape everything, come to me, and I will hide you within my chest. Come when you wish. Come however you wish. Come to me…and you will always find me here.
I ask for nothing in return. Rest assured. There was never any demand before. I just want to love you so much, hold you tight and cry.
Letter—3
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In these five years, you’ve called me on my birthday only twice. Though it’s almost six years now, come this June. Out of 365 days a year with you, we speak only on this one day. The remaining 364 days, neither of us calls the other. And I have no complaints about it. Eid, Durga Puja, Valentine’s Day, spring festivals, Pohela Boishakh, New Year’s Eve…we never talk. You know, I was accustomed to everything about you. Even after knowing you couldn’t see me, I loved you. I never loved you with demands hanging between us. My messages would sometimes sit unread for more than a month. I never complained about it out loud. Just tears rolling silently down my cheeks. I suffered, but never lodged a single grievance with you in return.
I was accustomed to everything about you. Your neglect, your harsh words…so many things. I had accepted it as my fate. When a marriage turns sour, a woman accepts it. She tells herself, this is my home, I must stay here. Live here, speak to no one about it. Bear it all in silence.
We were never married, never built a life together. Yet I spent years accepting everything with a smile. I long to call you on your birthday, but I don’t. For fear you might be annoyed. Or your wife might be upset—I think of that too. So your voice is something I no longer hear.
I’ve had this Android phone for only about two and a half years. My youngest uncle gifted it to me. My father was upset with me for just one reason—because I wouldn’t marry. I’ve been well-behaved, listened to everything my parents said. Only this refusal to marry angered him. Because of that anger, he wouldn’t buy me a phone. It amuses me to think of father’s stubbornness—the man who casually spends ten thousand rupees on a dress, yet wouldn’t give me money for a mobile. And I was stubborn too: I told myself I’d buy a phone and give it to father myself.
But then I forgot about that stubbornness. I managed with the old set. Reading your every post, commenting on them, seeing you every day…in pictures, that is. I’ve never watched or heard your recitations. I cannot truly say what your voice sounds like. A friend once said, “Listen to his voice on my phone,” and I had an Android. But I told her no. I said I’ll listen when I can buy my own phone. And if I’m to hear you, it will be face to face. Yes, I had no desire to hear your voice through someone else’s mobile. My self-respect wouldn’t allow it. It’s better to be content with what you have. Now I’ve been using this Android for over two and a half years. Still, I don’t listen to you. I don’t watch your recitation videos on YouTube. I prefer to keep you as you were that first day—new. If I hear you too much, you’ll grow old, you see. That’s why I keep my distance. I keep you as you are! As you wish to be! Do you understand why I’m saying all this today? I’m telling you about your voice. The one I’ve never heard! I haven’t had the fortune other girls do, of owning a phone.
I hear you only one day a year—on my birthday alone. You see what a tremendous stroke of luck that is for me!
# Letter
Did you ever think about it? This girl who loves you like a madwoman—she’s never complained about you, not once. She has no expectations of you either. And yet, you know, I thought this morning that I’d get your call the moment I woke. As the day wore on, I understood more and more how foolish I’ve been. People have so much to do, so much writing, so many messages to check, so many others making demands—wanting pictures sent every single day. I took far too long to understand all this. I promise you, I will never waste your precious time again.
Yes, you called. Fourteen minutes before midnight. Three times. I didn’t answer. What was the point? You should give that time to the people you love. I don’t need anything from you. You must forgive me. I’m asking forgiveness for loving you for six years. And everything I’ve said today—it was all just to make one point clear: your voice, I have never truly heard it. I never will now.
I’ve cried so much since this morning. If only my father were here—he’d place his hand on my head and pray for me. He’d put some money in my palm. While eating my cooking he’d say, “Your cakes turn out well, you know. Why don’t you learn to make khichuri from your mother the way she does it?” I thought about this, and my eyes just wouldn’t stop. I have no boyfriend to talk to, no one close, no person I truly love. There’s no one who’s truly mine. There are many people around, but no one of my own. How strangely I’m passing my days. No one even notices. Day by day I’m growing harder. When I come to you, I don’t say the things other girls say. I’ve annoyed you terribly. I shouldn’t have done any of this. I’ve felt bad for troubling you these past days. I’m truly ashamed. Please, forgive me. It’s late, yet I can’t sleep. I’ve worked so hard all day, my body aches, I’m unwell. If I wanted to hear your voice now, I couldn’t reach you. And I don’t want to. Please, be assured of that.
Your wife and I—we both love the same man. One of us, having him completely, has become unbearable. The other, not having him, has become unbearable too. Do you see the difference? The difference between having and not having? How could you understand it, tell me! You never wanted me the way I wanted you, so it’s difficult for you to comprehend. Too much ruins a person, and too little does the same. Your wife torments you with her love, burns you up with it. I do the same—because, as I said, I love you! But think about it: am I really causing you such suffering? Truly? I’m nowhere in your life. Why do you misunderstand me then? And I’ve never forced you into anything. Why can’t you see that? Look into my eyes and really look. Do you see love there, or something else? How much I wish I could hang a large picture of you in my room. But I can’t. It’s not possible. I love you, my old man! Please forgive me. And don’t say anything more now—can’t you see the state of things all around? I’m going to die anyway!
**Letter—4**
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Perhaps this is my last love letter to you. I won’t send another. If I slip and write to you again by mistake, I’ll burn it with fire, so it never reaches your hands.
I cause you so much pain, don’t I? Tell me.
That’s exactly what you keep telling me these days. I’ve heard so much, I’ve grown used to it now! I’m accustomed to your neglect and your cruelty. Along with it, I’ve grown accustomed to not receiving your love either.
We never loved each other. Love takes two people, doesn’t it? Can there be love from only one side? But I suppose you could say there’s no love between us—there’s affection. And even that affection comes only from me. You’ve never once inquired after it or cared for it. You’ve done nothing. For me to have come this far alone has been terribly hard, when there was nothing to gain. And there I got only neglect, accusations, and condemnation! I have no good qualities. I’m the worst person in the world. A great criminal. Tell me, what is my crime? Loving you—that’s the crime, isn’t it? Or is it that I judged you? Oh, I’m sorry, I’m talking too much to you these days.
Let me stop now. Listen, if you look back at our conversations from seven or eight months ago, you’ll see how much I actually judged you. There are no accusations against me there. But did you love me seven or eight months ago? Not at all. Don’t even think it. Even if I accept that I’ve been troubling you these past seven months, you ought to tell me where and how I’ve been troubling you! Before this, I never made such judgments or said such things to you. So why didn’t you see my good qualities then? Why didn’t you notice that for the past five years I’ve loved you quietly, without complaint? Why are you dismissing me and my love now, based on just a few messages from these past months?
I speak to you only once a year—on my birthday. That’s it. Otherwise we don’t talk. I’m not even allowed to call you. It seems you’d be annoyed. I never see you. Nothing happens between us. I accept all the neglect and accusations quietly. I don’t know if anyone else in the world has committed such a crime. I’ve truly done something terrible by loving you. That’s why I’m being punished so. But here’s some good news for you—I won’t send you any more letters or messages. I won’t speak to you. Wherever you find peace and comfort, stay there. Live with those who love you. I don’t care anymore. Not even now. You spoke of your wife. You say we’re the same, you and I. Just minor differences. You say we both think we’re faultless. Well, you’ve lived with your wife, you know her at least a little. But you’ve never even lived with me. So how can you accuse me? You don’t know me. You’ve never spent time with me. We barely spoke on the phone, there was no love. It takes a whole lifetime to know someone. Yet you’ve judged me based on a few messages from the past three months!
I was fine all those years—could you love me then? No, you couldn’t. What do you even say about me?… I’m fair-skinned and beautiful, womanly, powerful… and what else! And I’m dangerous too.
# Who Told You I Was Bad?
Who told you such things about me… that I’m wicked, that I’m this and that.
Look, I know perfectly well—better than well—who’s been spreading lies about me to you, and the fact that I caught you believing them proves how thoroughly they’ve managed to turn you against me. Tell me, what if I told you I’ve seen conversations you’ve had with others? What would you say then? Even when I glimpsed your darker sides, I didn’t expose them—I buried them and loved you anyway. I never once complained. I never said you were a bad person. A human being isn’t all good or all bad, so how can anyone be entirely wicked? I had just one thing to say—that you didn’t love me, that you never gave me time. And yet here you are, the very person who never loved me, standing me before a dock of the gravest accusations. Today I’m left speechless. The time has come for me to step away. That’s why this letter is so long. As I write these words, I’m weeping like a madwoman. This—this is what love’s suffering feels like. I never knew before. I’ve committed such grave wrongs. Forgive me.
I really, truly, deeply, endlessly, infinitely love you. Look what you’ve done—you’ve brought me to a place I now have to leave. Because once you declared that I disturb your peace, that I torment you, what choice do I have but to go? For your happiness, I’ve prayed every single day of my life.
We never made each other promises, and yet so much time has passed between us. Is religion the great wall between us? Not for me—not even close. I could have married you if you’d loved me. But you never loved anyone outside your faith, and marriage was never even a question. What more could I give you when I’m not good enough? Then stay with the good ones. You won’t have me anymore. Tell me, if I fell gravely ill, if I didn’t survive, wouldn’t that be a relief? One less person to bother you. Listen, if at this final moment I asked for something, would you give it to me? A gift? You’ve given me so little—no love, no time, no phone call. Nothing. Anyway, I don’t want anything from you. But there’s one thing I will ask for. Will you give it to me?
I don’t want to speak of your private affairs. But I will, in case I’m not here to say it. Your wife is like a sister to me. If her wrongs are grave, then let me bear the punishment instead. Forgive my sister, please. Love her. If you do this, my gift will be complete. That’s my gift—what I’ve been asking for from you.
I tell you everything. Everything, I mean absolutely everything. And I tell you your faults too. But I don’t discuss them with anyone else, not once. Our fights stay in messages, or if need be, behind closed doors. Why should the world know? If anyone speaks harshly of you because of our quarrel, it will break my heart. I can fight with you, yes—but if anyone outside raises a hand against you, I’ll take that blow first, shielding you with my own chest.
Why did you misunderstand me at this final hour? Why? Why did you think I would demand everything from you?
Why did you say you couldn’t do anything beyond this? What did I ask for? Tell me. I’ve told you again and again, said it plainly—I cannot bear a single woman in your writing. Not one. That doesn’t mean I don’t like your work. Think hard about it. Not long ago, when you posted about that movie review, I messaged you in the inbox: can’t you write poetry? After Jibanananda Das, your poems are what I love most. Fifteen days after your wedding, when I spoke to you, I said, ‘Don’t give up writing. Write something every day, no matter what. Write even if it’s ABC, D.’ You laughed at what I said. If you gave up writing, I’d fight with you. It’s because of your writing that I loved you so much… Oh, sorry—*did* love you. Even when I was beside you, all I tried to do was let your writing happen in peace. Truly, beloved.
Women, they’re just no good! Especially the women nowadays. People used to be genuine. Now everything’s adulterated. That’s why I can’t bear women around you, or in your writing either. That’s my one fear! Do you understand? If you fell in love with someone now, I have no objection. Why would I? Who are you to me, tell me? I have no right. But what can I say! Yet my fear is in one place—that nothing should harm you. If someone tries to hurt you by using some woman against you, then what? Don’t you see what they show on Crime Patrol these days! Whatever. I only think good thoughts about you, but remember—all the wars and quarrels in this world, at the root of every single one of them are women. So don’t let them get too close.
Look, when we buy a showpiece from the market, it gets a place in the showcase in our drawing room. Nobody puts a showpiece on the bedroom bed. Some things are merely decorative. But those things only add decoration; they’re not really useful in any practical way. A fly will land on open food at the roadside or anywhere. A fly will never land on covered food. I’m just saying these things. That’s what occurred to me. I want only one thing—to see you safe. To see you happy. To see peace and contentment in your home. You understand everything anyway—what more can I say!
You know, my liver, my gold, my trust, my breath, my weaver bird, oh you, my old man, my world, my love… listen, I loved you, or did love you once. I won’t say be well, because I’ve understood—without me, you’ll be vastly better. Once I’m gone, you’ll be so much happier. No one will judge you, no one to suspect… but this one question remains for you—behind and before everything was one reason, and that was love. Then why did you overlook that very cord and see only my anger and these words as the main thing? Why?… You don’t have to answer.
If I die from a virus infection, time seems like it won’t come again. There was so much to say. But since you’re asking for freedom, I’m giving it. There are so many things left unsaid. So much was never spoken. My phone’s not even charged. I’m leaving. Be at peace.
Thus,
Your unliked one
Letter-5
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Hey, you there? Listening?
I said I wouldn’t write anymore letters. I’m not. I want to love you with just a little demand. Why didn’t you check the messenger? Never mind—you won’t have to check it ever again.
I won’t come to love anymore. You know, I came to tell you something. The sickness has reached my city too. Now it’s my turn to be struck down. So in this final hour, I’ve come to tell you I love you.
Listen, are you alright? Has that belly of yours shrunk, sweetheart? Never mind, don’t worry about it now. Stay strong. Eat well. Eat lots of warm things. Sleep properly. Get some rest. What else can I say, you tell me? If I were there, I could look after you properly. But I’m not there anymore, and I have no right either. Tell me, why does love hurt so much? Love is the most beautiful thing in the world. Yet why such pain! The Creator has filled my heart with so much love for you, and yet look—you’re not mine. Why? Where are you? Can you tell me? I’m telling you, you’ve filled me completely. Just like you always were. You’re nowhere, and yet you’re everywhere.
Look, I’m crying so hard. I can’t write anything. Sweetheart, look, why does it feel like this? Will you come? Sit in front of me? I want to lay my head in your lap and cry for a while. Don’t love me. You don’t have to love me in this final hour. Just don’t misunderstand me—that’s enough. My phone screen is flooded with my tears. I swear by the Creator! If you were here, you’d see what agony it is to write this to you! Old fool, why didn’t you take me into your arms? Would I have tormented you more if I’d been there against your chest? You know, if I had you, I’d be so much better. I’ve told you before—you are my sickness, and you are the medicine for that sickness too. You are all my questions in this world, and you are the answers to those questions. You are my only one. You are my you. You are my whole world.
You know, you never once said why you loved me? Why haven’t I had the fortune to hear it even once in all these years! Why is it only with me that things are like this? Why have you left so many grievances in the corner of your heart? Why, when someone said something or other, did you use that to belittle my love! Why couldn’t my love win you over? Why haven’t you ever sent me a message? Why have you never called to talk? Why don’t we meet often in Dhaka? Why, tell me, why? Don’t tell me, don’t say anything. I won’t bother you again, I won’t judge you, just tell me one thing… no, forget it, you don’t need to say anything, you don’t need to write anything. You have so many people in your life. You’ll be fine with them, I know that. You asked me for a letter on New Year’s. I didn’t give it. Well, it doesn’t matter now. I’ve stepped into the crowd of death. Now I won’t take anything more, won’t listen to anything anymore. If I’m not here, you’ll be at peace, I know that. Because you said it yourself—I’m the same as your wife. You can’t live without your wife, but you can live without me just fine. In fact, you’ll be happier if I’m not there.
You know, why do you always talk about peace? You say you’ll go wherever there’s peace, even to a prostitute if there’s peace there. You know? You go to someone, find peace, and then after some time you’ll see—there’s no peace there either. Peace isn’t about the other person. Wherever you learn to adapt, that’s where peace is. I don’t feel like blaming you for anything today. I just want to love you, and only love you. Couldn’t we have held each other’s hands for a little while in this final hour, the two of us, just the two of us?
You held my hand once, and since then no one else has. My friends always say my hands are so soft—they mention it every time we shake hands. They say your son-in-law will never let go of your hand.
Listen, why did you have to tell him that I’d fallen in love with him? Could he not understand it himself? Or is everyone like you—thinking I won’t be loved just because I’m fair-skinned and beautiful? That man… I don’t know how to describe him. But I can tell you this much—he’s mostly been kind to me. There’s nothing between us. Just friendship. Nothing more. I’ve told you about him so many times, but you never listened. I tell you everything, but you don’t pay attention. I can’t say anything about his personal life. And it wouldn’t be right either—it’s someone else’s life, after all. I’ve always wished for his happiness and peace with his wife. I’ve told him that again and again. After some time, he told me, you’re a strange girl. I rarely meet girls as good as you these days. If I had you in my life, everything would be more organized and beautiful. He’s intelligent, his manner is deeply kind. He loves the country deeply; he’s quiet, that’s all. What more can I say about him? We don’t talk that much with anyone anyway.
When I spend time with someone, I assume there will be something flawed in them, and I accept it and move on. Because none of us are angels. We’re all human. When someone’s bad side surfaces, I’m actually delighted. You know why? It helps me understand that he’s normal. Because people are a mix of bad and good. But if you see only goodness in someone, then believe me, that person is certainly the most dangerous, because no human being is entirely good. We’re not angels. Never mind all this. My phone’s running out of battery anyway. I want to love you so much. I want these few days where I’m angry every day, talking every day, loving every day, being together every day, talking all night—I want to love you so much, so much, so much.
Listen, I’m old-fashioned, so no one else will love you the way I do. Does anyone love so beautifully these days? Tell me? And I loved you one-sidedly for so long. You weren’t anywhere. You’ve been everywhere in my home, yet you know nothing of it. Do you know we have a household together? No, you don’t. Our home runs by my principles. The day you come, everything will run by your word. My love, my life, I want to love you so much. At this final hour, I want to love you so much. Again and again. This old woman is leaving. I’m leaving you in peace and comfort. You won’t have me anymore. Be well. I know you’ll be fine without me. You have so many people anyway… the sparrow, the mynah… what else…
You rascal! One last thing… I love you so much! I love you more. I love you, love you, love you, love you, love you, love you, love you… I love you so very much, old man… but you never understood. I love you, truly I do, I even love my lies to you. You’re my ugly kind of love, my ugly kind of habit. My life!
Good morning, my whole world!
My morning came early with the chittering of that bird. Sleep again, morning again. I feel restless. When I woke at dawn, you crossed my mind, and now from morning onward you sit there, woven into my thoughts. You’re really just a decrepit old fool. Except you’re not—you’re everywhere at once. One-sided love becomes so terribly powerful. Difficult to lose. And then if I ever think, what if I stop loving you well, then this love ends. You want your own peace, don’t you, so I should step away. Fine then. If the Creator grants your prayer, that would be good, wouldn’t it? Tell me. Say the Creator took me instead, with some virus. Then your peace would be eternal. How amusing that would be. No one to bother you anymore.
Listen, I’ll tell you something—don’t mind it. I know you don’t remember me. It’s nothing if you don’t. Don’t think so badly of me. That man you suspect me of—he really is just a good friend, nothing more. My love means you, it always has, it still does. When I see someone beside you I grow angry—but when someone stands beside him I don’t grow angry, why is that, tell me? When I close my eyes and you should come, you don’t come so easily. For your happiness and peace I’ve had to move so far away. That’s what you want anyway. I’m leaving, but still—be at peace. I love my angry man, there’s nothing more to know than that, never was. There’s no greater truth than this. I love you.