Some Unnecessary Explanations

You know, Rimi, there was a time when writing felt as exhausting as it felt wonderful once I could finish something. I never wanted to be a writer, really, but I loved to write.

I never told you these things, or perhaps there was never time, never the right moment. Even when we weren't speaking, I kept writing—I couldn't stop myself. Last year, when I thought it through alone and realized I wouldn't be with you anymore, that you wouldn't let me stay, my first thought was that I had to break free from this writing.

If I kept writing, I knew I'd keep talking to you. I know this. Another eleven years would have passed like the last eleven, and perhaps I wouldn't have even noticed. I'm not a writer, never wrote anything truly good. But you probably don't know the pain of giving up writing by choice. I gave it up because, whatever else happens, I won't be caught up in your complications anymore.

There was so much more I wanted to say about writing. But as always, I have no opportunity, no time either. Sometimes I feel low missing the writing, but otherwise I'm well. And this long journey through illness has taught me so much. Now even my way of seeing life has changed.

Let me not go on. Stay well, my dear.