You believe, and I believe—
our God…there's only one I know!
This sky…yours and mine, yet
they choose, deliberately choose to bring conflict!
The letters hidden in the Bible…
They know of them too!
When I bow my head in reverence,
or when you fold your hands and prostrate before the divine feet,
I've never heard them tell Jesus—
this God is mine…he never said it either—
this boy is mine…your enemy!
Touch him and your caste will be lost instantly, right now!
Who are these creatures with hands and feet and skulls…
They drink blood, they smear blood,
this is how they ascend to heaven, day after day!
Are these people too? I see they have religion,
pride swells in their hollow skulls…
only humanity they lack!
In their veins flows their own mother's blood,
do they know this?
Every time they call their mother a goddess,
I drown in wonder…it strikes me,
how did such a dog get born from a human womb!
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Then was it coupling with a dog that that mother knew?
Then is it truly they who bear no guilt?
Why should an innocent mother alone carry shame?
The culprit then is that corrupted seed,
within which slept, cloaked in human form,
such a vast beast, such a grotesque demon!
…I never allow sorrows to settle. I never let them sit within me. If they found the smallest crack, they would slip inside and finish me. Suffering is only the sickness of the sorrowful. Never let them settle, sweep them out. My heart was heavy, I saw things that stirred discontent within, brooding on these matters I was composing a poem. Suddenly you came to mind, and I no longer wished to write the poem—I wished to write to you…
I know that crying out like that, beseeching persistently, no one ever gives freely. They don't give even their due share, and to expect generosity…those who have abundance can give, they toss scraps to the stray dogs on the street and feel nothing. The morsel of one's rightful share must be approached meekly, hand outstretched in supplication, otherwise the giver keeps it in their pocket anyway. Sometimes you must snatch it forcefully; those who cannot do this have nothing they can truly call their own—no one brings them their portion to their door unbidden. But whoever leaves a house with their hands full—when they depart, those hands won't be empty—everyone brings to such a house, keeps such a person on a pedestal…as long as there's the pretext of filling hands. Those who cannot do this continue to grumble and complain, to judge what is just and unjust…but what comes of it? Is there even such a thing as justice, or only injustice? And the giver…they give and give until the burden of saving even themselves becomes too much! The giver who does not first set aside their own share—what is left that is theirs? Does anyone really give so much! Who would want to give such a gift! The more one gives, the more one receives…this is written somewhere or other…but where does it happen in reality? Does it really happen? Rather, the more one receives, the more one demands—shamelessly, brazenly, only ever wanting, never satisfied…it just continues. Meanwhile the giver, diminished by endless giving, grows weak. I've heard that nature abhors a vacuum. In the end, war between the weak and the strong. The strong win first, the weak last. I know I behave foolishly, but I don't know how to speak—how should I say things for you to keep your word…I truly don't understand.
Never misunderstand me for any reason. Love is not something cheap to me. I could spend my entire life loving deeply just one person. And love does not always change. This person whose every text I wait for constantly—they don't even have time to send a simple message!
Sometimes, waiting for you stirs up such fury in me that I want to dump a bucket of water over your head, or lock you in the bathroom.
Why do you do this?
You won’t hold on, and you won’t let go either… I want to talk to you, but you never have the time!
To me, you are the name of an addiction.
Whatever comes to my mind, I say it right then, because these things jam up in my head—I can’t be bothered to remember so many things. Besides, it’s better to speak what’s in your heart!
There were four things.
1. Have I ever said or tried to prove, in word or deed, that I am intelligent?
I am not intelligent at all, never have been. From childhood, I’ve been terribly foolish, a rather simple-minded girl. Good grades in studies or quick wit—I’ve never had either. If you don’t believe me, ask anyone at home.
2. Am I really suffering from some mental illness? I didn’t know.
3. Do I need to see a psychiatrist for this? But I’ve never felt any problem.
4. Am I depressed?
5. From childhood till today, I’ve never even broken a glass over anything, great or small. For me, raising a hand against another person is something impossible.
6. I am never angry with anyone. There is anger inside me, but it doesn’t seem to find any outward expression.
Reading some of your texts, these thoughts came to my mind, and I’ve written them down. Reply if you want to.
I love you. I don’t want to hide any of my feelings from you, that’s why I said everything. You can do whatever you want with those written words. I just want to let you know who I am. If you take it otherwise, then I am really very much sorry. Please forgive me.
I so much want to believe in everyone. If not everyone, then at least in some people, in some relationships. I so much want to forget everything that’s behind, learn to trust everyone anew, but I can’t. I cannot trust anyone, and so I suffer terribly, yet something inside me refuses to consent to trusting anyone. I cannot trust a soul. Sometimes, even the two people for whom I see the light of this world—even with them, it seems… they too will deceive me, they are deceiving me, scheming in secret, plotting to cheat me. Except for myself, I can’t trust anyone’s word or deed. Yet I try so hard, I force myself to do so many things, I tell myself over and over that what I’m thinking isn’t really true, that I must trust people, give them a chance, love them—but somehow, everyone betrays me. Then I tell myself again… no more, no more! My experience grows stronger by the day. A voice within me rises up… enough, enough! I cannot repeat the mistakes of yesterday, cannot play the fool again, have no time left to be the butt of someone’s joke, cannot let myself become anyone’s toy. They teach me morality, teach me right and wrong, speak to me of justice and injustice.
It seems as though I alone am responsible for all the injustice in the world, as though I must be the most self-sacrificing and generous, as though I alone must understand all of humanity, as though the entire burden of alleviating others’ suffering rests on me. The truth is, I am petty and stingy, I do not know how to give, how to share. I am consumed with myself. I must learn everything anew, unlearn so much that was taught to me wrongly. They taught me to make concessions—while keeping their own portions intact!
The real truth is, no one speaks for me. Who understands what I am owed? How desperately I wish to abandon everything and believe again. It is so difficult to live with disbelief! Let me not forget even once more! What if I forget? What if I erase some chapters of the past, some experiences? What if I give them another chance? We are all human, after all; humans make mistakes. I am not bad. I am good, truly. What I have is enough. I am content with little. I live like this. Even if it causes some pain, it is no hardship for me to adjust for their sake, for their wellbeing. If through my sacrifice a few more people can live well, can be happy—what of it? I truly wish to give them a chance, so very much. Those days caused me such anguish! I understand what it feels like to grope in darkness and find no one, how helpless and alone it makes you. It takes strength just to swallow the pain whole; does everyone have that strength? Perhaps they do, or perhaps it comes in time if it doesn’t. If it never came, how would so many people still be alive? I do not want anyone to suffer as I have, to writhe in the agony of not having, to slowly die, bit by bit. I know how terrifying that dark alley is! I wish to shield those in pain from it, but when I see their wounds heal and watch them turn back down that very same path, coming to teach me what is right and wrong, what should be done and what should not—when they tell me these things, I can only laugh at myself. I want to say: see? You are walking that alley again! I warned you…I told you not to spout those hollow words of trust…and yet you fell again?
It hurts deeply when, try as I might, I cannot move forward as I once did. Something grabs me from behind and warns: Stop! You have learned enough. That path is closed to you now, you cannot go that way again. There is nothing new on that path; take a different one now. Abandon all that pointless vanity. I become trapped in my own restraint. The desire leaves me. What need have I of all that? Only a few days more, and I will be through. Who says belief is necessary to live a life? In any case, one can live quite well without believing in certain things. Yes, there is responsibility—to whoever bears it, responsibility spreads everywhere; to whoever refuses it, nowhere. Whoever has responsibility has also made mistakes; whoever has none, has made none….Let those be understood, more or less, but I cannot act from the heart anymore. I have ended my heart within this very heart. I have bound my faith to myself alone, so that I am never betrayed by myself again. If I can have faith in myself, that is enough. In one lifetime, even this much suffices.
I haven’t even begun to speak of what I’m caught in. Not even one percent of it. Some things can’t be put into words. If you try, the alphabet runs out before you finish. In this accountant’s life, I’m terribly unaccountable.
Look, why don’t you see the messages I send you? Your phone is always on silent, isn’t it? So what should I do—tell me. Should I only message you on Messenger from now on? When someone calls your mobile, it shows up on the screen, vibrates. When a message comes, you really can’t notice it right away. But you do check Messenger more often, that’s true. Should I only use Messenger then?
Why do you sometimes make me out to be bigger than I am? It bothers me terribly. I’m actually more comfortable being small in your eyes, not understanding much. Why do you sometimes assume I understand everything? I’d feel so much better if you thought of me as a simple girl, naive about the world and its ways. Becoming big in your eyes means having to understand so many things. It puts pressure on me.
When you’re far away, it’s so easy to misunderstand someone close to you. In just a little time, a vast distance can open up. A small thing—when you write it, it sounds one way, but when you say the exact same thing aloud, it sounds completely different. That’s why sometimes it’s absolutely crucial to hear a voice, to speak to someone with the music of their voice in it. Better still, to stand before them and speak face to face. There’s a kind of magic in the eyes—and under its spell, one person can’t so easily misread another. A relationship, whatever its nature, needs at least a minimum of time to survive. You have to give the other person time to understand you. When two people truly understand each other, there comes a moment when you don’t need to explain everything anymore. Otherwise, if mountains of misunderstanding pile up, no single conversation can bring them down. What takes time to build bit by bit takes just as long to break down. Can a mountain of misunderstanding, accumulating a little each day, be demolished in one conversation? To me, it seems that in a relationship of love, nothing should ever be hidden. Nothing at all. Because whoever truly loves doesn’t find it so hard to forgive or accept. If I can’t easily accept someone’s darkness, it means I haven’t really loved them yet—I’ve only loved their brightness. Often I see that some perfectly ordinary thing, where there’s really nothing to hide, still—thinking there’s no need to mention it, we don’t bother telling, and somehow an invisible distance grows for no good reason. Why create such needless distance? Why not just speak the truth plainly? I want a relationship, I want love from it, I want care, I want to feel important to them, I want the security of my relationship—and yet I hold onto an ego, thinking, why must I explain everything? Why spell it all out clearly? They’re not worthy of me in any way, I think—I’ve accepted all their shortcomings only because I love them, or because they love me. I’m not obligated to justify myself to anyone—so why should I? Do I eat or wear anyone’s charity?
# On Freedom, Honesty, and the Fragile Architecture of Relations
I have my own freedom, my own wants and refusals—why must I lay it all bare before him? Why grant him such weight? Why break everything down into explanation? Once I’ve told him everything, my image will crumble in his eyes. Why should he know all of me?
Listen—why waste tenderness on someone unworthy of it? If such thoughts arise, the greater wisdom lies in letting him go in that very moment. I’ve heard many say it: *He was never right for me anyway, I just loved him. Or he loved me. So I accepted all his flaws and unworthiness despite knowing them.* Is that not pure hypocrisy? No one is obliged to bare their entire self to another. But here’s the truth—when two people are bound by relationship, disclosure becomes necessary. Even the smallest distance in any bond erodes its love, trust, respect, faith, tenderness—all of it. And what remains without these? That isn’t love. For when you love someone, respect, trust, and faith in them must be present. Without them, the very foundation of relationship—your faith in the bond itself—begins to crack, grain by grain. We don’t notice. At first, we can’t. The damage remains invisible. But later, when everything spirals beyond our grip, we finally see what we’ve lost.
Relationships don’t shatter over grand betrayals. They shatter over these small, accumulated errors. A relationship is like a glass bangle—you can carry it in your hand all day, turning it over, and nothing happens. But one small blow, and it splinters beyond repair. When misunderstanding takes root, it must be cleared then and there. Both of you must be given the chance to speak from where you stand, to explain yourselves plainly. But we often think: *Why all this explanation? They’ll understand on their own. Or: It’s such a trivial thing—why spell it out? Everyone understands.* Yes, everyone understands. But that person, in that moment, perhaps wants you to explain it to them. The meaning and weight of any words depend not on the words themselves, but on who speaks them, how they are spoken, and what circumstances surround them.
In matters of relationship, a person can be rational, wise, or simple-natured—and still be deceived. Because in relationships, we place everyone else on the witness stand while we refuse to stand there ourselves. We believe we cannot be wrong, not even in error. More mistakes arise from the blind faith that we *won’t* be wrong than from actual wrongdoing. This doesn’t mean we’re simply letting the other person win. It means there’s no need to live in the framework of winning or losing at all. The moment winning and losing enter a relationship, competition and distance arrive with them. A relationship endures—despite all the flaws of both people—on one condition alone: that both still choose each other. Yet there are times when even a distant voice, a mere echo, fails to convey the heart of the other person. Some things can be understood by meeting someone’s gaze, without a single word spoken. But for those who must sustain love across distance, that is where the error creeps in.
# On Understanding and Being Understood
When someone speaks or writes to communicate, they do so in their own way. But the person who listens or reads—when they take in those words—they too understand it in their own fashion. Here lies a vast chasm between what is meant and what is received. Two minds never think alike; there is always some difference, always some gap.
Yet sometimes, great misunderstandings dissolve with the gentlest touch. When a beloved person draws the one they love close and simply says, “I’m sorry,” or says, “I didn’t mean it that way; don’t misunderstand me, dear”—then there is no room for further anger to take root. The impulse comes to refrain from hurting that person needlessly. People say words breed more words. Yes, they do. But worse than that—wrong words breed bitterness. That bitterness alone is enough to shatter a bond, to render it utterly devoid of feeling. A relationship survives on love, yes, but it survives far more on peace. We give weight to everything, yet we forget that to receive the best from someone, we must first give them the assurance that they matter to us. I often see this, especially in marriages: when a wife is upset for some reason, or when a misunderstanding has arisen over some family matter, the husband tries to appease her with expensive gifts. In doing so, the wife comes to assume that her husband has realized his mistake, that he is now trying to distract her or cover his fault. And yet the husband was not at fault at all—he chose this path merely to preserve the peace of the home. This too is a kind of misunderstanding. Even if the immediate storm passes, it is nothing more than a form of pretense and theatre.
This is not the right path. Gifts can be given at other times, but never by overlooking a mistake. Wives are a peculiar kind—they become far less like themselves and far more difficult under their husbands’ indulgence. They must be given everything, yes, but alongside that they must be held firmly to understand this: the place of affection is not the same as the place of tolerance for error. When a mistake occurs, she must never be let off in silence without being told. This must be made clear from the very beginning, or else she will never have the restraint. Often, it is best to speak with her beforehand, to make clear what concessions he can and cannot make—for a husband is at once a son to someone, a brother to someone, a father to someone, and carries many other responsibilities upon his shoulders. Wives, most of the time, fail to see this. Not everything is possible for a husband; sometimes, even when he wishes to do something, circumstances make it impossible. But there is a limit to this too. Often it crosses the boundary of what can be endured—to such a degree that questions of life and death arise, and then the decision to separate comes, forced upon them. Those who can leave, do so. Those who cannot remain, fleeing from each other, trying merely to survive, to get through life somehow. What a terrible, tormented way to spend one’s days!
# On Love and Understanding
The truth is, this happens when we confuse love with so many other things.
It’s fine to love the person we love, to respect them, to trust them—all of that is well and good. But we ought also to consider whether everything they say or mean is actually right. When we correct their mistakes, eventually they’ll understand that you can’t just explain certain things away to them, that they can’t do whatever they please simply because they wish it. Teaching them these things takes a great deal of time at first, but later there comes a moment when you needn’t teach them anything more. The truth is, this applies to any relationship—if you don’t give a relationship time, it develops cracks, it rusts. But in such cases, the other person must also try to understand whether their beloved is unwilling to give time, or simply unable to, for some reason. From a distance, it’s difficult to discern whether someone truly doesn’t want to, or wants to but cannot. Then you must explain it again to the other person—whether they can’t, or won’t, or why they won’t, how much they can give or how much they can’t. The greatest problem in a long-distance relationship is maintaining communication. Because distance prevents constant presence and the giving of time, all manner of misunderstandings arise—misunderstandings that rarely occur when people are near. What can be explained from proximity, however thoroughly, can scarcely be half-explained from afar. For this reason, both must understand each other and make allowances continually. There are even certain problems that would never arise at all if two people lived together. How long can two people stay angry with each other if there is love between them? And if love is true, it may change form over time, but it never grows dim. Only where love is absent does one need the paint of outward show. Age may advance, but the beloved never seems old; rather, it seems they grow beautiful again each day, as they were when first you saw them. Then you find yourself falling in love with them anew. Gradually it dawns that this person is simply better for me than all others. Here, peace plays the greatest role—not love itself. The person who loves me greatly but grants me no peace, from them my love will naturally, gradually diminish, and eventually turn to revulsion. If I truly wish to give something to the one I love, it might be this: to let them live at peace as they are, to let them dwell and grow in comfort.
I have also seen those who are unhappy in a relationship from the beginning, yet force themselves to continue it, and then in their final years they begin to remember the past, to ponder… why did I ever accept this then, when someone else wanted me so, and I wanted them too, and then suddenly I stumbled here, and wasted an entire life with the wrong person! Yet those who truly see each other, who know each other’s hearts and every facet of themselves, and who from the very start committed themselves to accepting their companion wholly and walking forward together—they say until their last day… *Thank God they were there beside me, or who knows what would have become of me by now!* They were the ones who held everything safe.
# On Love and Solitude
In some loves, the beloved becomes more and more necessary to us—the two of them grow indispensable to each other on life’s path. In others, love transforms, over time, into something like a burden, something to be dragged along, leaving no room for anything else. Some loves make us wish, in the end, that we could live our whole life with this one person. Love has no axiomatic rules, no predetermined course. Love, in the end, is colored only by love itself. When you love someone, you wish they would remain before your eyes always, on any pretext, any excuse. But when a relationship begins from obligation, or becomes a weight through time’s turning, there’s a constant longing for them to slip out of sight, for a moment’s peace to spend time as you please—the mind even whispers: *When will death come? That day will be a mercy!* When love loses its necessity with time, when it transforms, it cannot truly be love—it never is. It is merely something born of circumstance, and to call it love at all is a misnomer. Love itself is an invisible commitment—sometimes perhaps on paper, but often only in the heart.
Tell me something: do we really have any relationship at all? And if we do, what is it? These past two days I’ve done nothing but try to feel it—whether anyone truly exists or not, near or far. At least someone who thinks of me a little, or prays for me, that I might be well, that those dark clouds hanging over my head might lift. I find no one. I cannot even feel anyone’s presence. I never wanted to write you about all this, and I don’t wish others to know it either—because even if they did, nothing in my life would change for better or worse. Only new people would arise to mock me. I don’t want anyone’s sympathy or pity. They’re useless to me. I remember clearly how they all made me feel isolated and cast out. After the divorce, my mother’s elder sister—whom I truly respect, not because she did anything worthy of respect for me, but because as an elder sister that is her due—and my brother-in-law kept me busy on their phones for a whole month, talking about this and that, so I wouldn’t need to turn to them. I didn’t go. I had no reason to go. My brother and sister-in-law constantly fed me filthy words—that everything was my fault. My respected father, a month after my divorce, said: *The boy was fine enough. If you’d just accepted certain things, you could have made the marriage work! Girls these days have such demands!* Yet after marriage, I never asked them for much—I couldn’t even get the smallest necessary thing I needed.
I used to lie around the house all day. Mother thought: *The girl will stay in this house her whole life now*, so she never stopped finding fault with me in conversation. If there was the slightest quarrel about anything between me and the other household members, they would all open their mouths and declare: *If she understood so much, why couldn’t she manage a marriage? The boy was fine. It was her stubbornness that was the problem!* My aunts never even bothered to ask how I was.
# My Uncles’ Fear
On that side, my two uncles were always gripped by this one anxiety—the moment I called, they feared I would ask them for money! When I realized their suspicion, even though my heart ached to speak with my cousins, I would sooner die than pick up the phone. What if they grew anxious again? At first, they wouldn’t even answer when they saw it was me. Only after they’d ring my father to confirm the reason for my call—whether I was asking for something or simply checking in—would they call me back, but only once Father assured them I’d rung out of simple affection.
I had already decided, even before the divorce, by thinking through all of this. I knew I would have to bear it. I came to this path fully aware that I would have to walk it alone, with tremendous patience. I had heard that parents often have a special place in their hearts for their most vulnerable child—they shield that child more carefully. But for me, it was the opposite. They began to control me according to their wishes. I remember they wouldn’t even give me pocket money, wouldn’t let me take tuition classes, lest anyone outside discover they weren’t providing for me. I couldn’t see through their deceptions then, because my heart was simple and calculated everything innocently.
They confined me to a single room and isolated me within their own house. No one would even speak to me, let alone miss me or worry over me! They had convinced themselves I would remain forever weak and helpless, that I would dance to their tune, that I couldn’t survive without them. They believed no one from the outside world would befriend me, that I would never have friends. When all of this comes flooding before my eyes, I cannot find it in myself to swim in any ocean of love and reverence for such people. Instead, I see before me only those who dug my grave. Much in this life can be forgotten, but some things cannot be left behind. No matter how sincerely I forgive them, I cannot unknow what I know. The truth is, love cannot be forced. Love, respect, gratitude—when these come from within, the heart speaks them forth of its own accord, naturally, without arrangement. I cannot write or speak in such a fabricated way. My mind rebels against imagining what I have not seen, what I cannot feel. It causes me deep pain. But I have forgiven everyone, and I hold no expectations from anyone. Whatever I need, I will ask of the Creator, for I should not have lived at all—yet here I am, alive and well. That itself is my greatest gift.
My father is a somewhat religious man. He is always speaking of the afterlife, the terror of the Last Day, the fear of Judgment. He says that when the world is destroyed on that day, no one will recognize anyone else—everyone will be consumed by their own thoughts, running in their own direction. Fathers won’t recognize their children, siblings won’t know one another, relatives will be strangers. Everyone will be entirely preoccupied with their own fate.
I wonder at myself, thinking: must we really wait until Judgment Day to witness all this? I’m seeing it happen right before my eyes! Or is the pre-apocalypse unfolding now? These days, my capacity for love works in only one direction, and I have nothing else—nothing worth writing about. To write of such things, I would first need to truly understand them. When I can, when I’m capable of that understanding, then I will write. I haven’t yet become that noble of spirit. I still cannot rise above all things and love humanity. There are still people who frighten me. Not because they might harm me, but because their behaviour, even now, wounds me from time to time. Yet I’m slowly transcending all of this. Perhaps very soon I’ll move beyond it entirely. I’m not the weeping sort I once was—I can see that clearly. Where my tears hold no value, I don’t shed them. This acceptance comes easily to me now.
—
Why do you write poems of sorrow? I cannot bear it! I love you so much—so why do you write poems of sorrow? I will love you even more, I will live as you wish me to live, and still you remain disheartened. I cannot bear it. And if my not loving you would make you happy, then I would choose that instead.
That I’m not writing poetry these days, that I’m writing all this rambling nonsense—does it bother you? Tell me, do you never miss me? Does the thought of talking to me never cross your mind? I miss you so terribly, yet you give me no time at all. It hurts me deeply.
I don’t want to force anything from you. Don’t call me out of obligation. I would be angry, I would suffer, and thinking of that—if your heart isn’t in it, don’t do anything for me at all. That’s what I would prefer. I’ve never extracted anything from anyone through compulsion, and I never will. I’m not accustomed to begging with an open palm. If you truly loved me, you couldn’t have gone all this time without speaking to me—you would have found it unbearable to stay away. Why should I have to ask you? Since I have no way to call you, you must judge the matter for yourself. I’m not saying this in anger—I don’t have the courage for that, never will. I cannot force myself upon you or burden you with my weight. Instead, I will keep all my love locked away in my heart. I’m used to enduring any pain. I can do it. I only wanted to know what you feel; I wasn’t asking you to call. If I’ve hurt you with my words, I’m sorry, darling, but I cannot keep silent. Please, don’t take anything I’ve said the wrong way!
—
Sometimes I want to smash my own head. Why can’t I walk completely alone? This time I will go alone, completely alone, or I will die trying. I’m making you witness to this. The list of what would not have happened in my life if you weren’t here is quite long… Perhaps one day I’ll write out that whole tale.
You sent me that line the other day: “Come out of your shell.” Why did you write that?
You know, there was a time when I’d see those long pieces of yours, and something would break inside me—anger mixed with such aching. Not because I didn’t like them or liked them poorly. No. Whenever I’d come across something substantial you’d written, all I could think was: here’s this person, writing thousands upon thousands of words, and if only—if only—you’d written just a few sentences fewer and answered my message instead, I could have spared myself so many nights drowning in pain and tears. The word “trust”—it was bound to you. For me, trust was you. Still is. Will be till I die. I’ve loved you the way I have loved you, and I’ve never felt the need to love anyone else like that. I never wanted you to love me back either. I knew—I know—that you don’t love me. I didn’t love you to receive something in return, yet even in not receiving, I’ve gained so much. When you truly love someone, your heart finds a strange peace, a strange strength. That’s not nothing, is it? Please don’t say anything. Just stay silent like this. Since that dawn, tears have only kept falling. Sorry for bothering you. I just needed to write to you so badly, that’s all.
—
Last night I dreamed I was married to some stranger, a man I’ve never known, never understood, let alone loved. He was showing me around, his whole family in tow. Somehow he was trying to become familiar to me, to matter to me… and all I could think was you. Even as I went around with him, you were woven into every moment. Oh well, I’ve only seen all this in dreams—in waking life, I don’t have the courage to imagine even half of it. I’m doing so well, so happy, loving you one-sidedly like this. I love you knowing I’ll never have you. Why does there have to be someone by your side in life? You’re not here, yet somehow you’ve seeped into everything that’s mine. I never wanted to love anyone but you… I wanted you—only you—to remain. How much do we surrender to family, to their happiness, to their desires and their definitions of what we should want? Someday they might force me to marry someone I never chose, someone I’ll be made to accept. I know my writing means nothing to you, my love means nothing to you. You’ve made that clear enough. But tell me—I haven’t stolen, I haven’t robbed, I haven’t killed. I’ve only loved you. What’s wrong with that? I’ve never harmed you in this life. I’ve only loved you in silence.
You know, since that dream, I’ve wanted to sit you down in front of me and cry for a while. I love you because I love you—there’s no other reason beyond that. So often I wish I could take you somewhere—somewhere no pain could reach you, no cruelty, no harsh words, no wound. Somewhere there would be no bad people. Only people who know how to love you the way I do. Your poems, your words would bloom even more beautifully there, surrounded by them. There would be only love. I wish I could hide you away from this kingdom of suffering.
There you would only write… and I would only read what you’ve written and look at you. In thinking of things like this, again and again, I’m reminded: you belong to someone else—to your family, to your children, to those you truly love. Yet I want so badly to hide you away. I’m afraid, somehow. Afraid of losing you even though I’ve never had you. Afraid that if you ever fell into danger, I wouldn’t be there to pull you out.
# The Greatest Fear
The greatest… the fear of not being able to love you!
Look at this—sleep has left me, I’m not yet awake. The thoughts of you that come, they flow so easily into writing… only you don’t come. Listen, forgive me all my faults, all my wrongs. Since nothing of mine is yours, since I myself am not yours, then cast away my sins and errors too. Since you’ve given me no place anywhere, what use is it to keep my transgressions? Tell me then… never mind, you needn’t say anything. Listen… I love you!
When reading your words, sometimes it feels as though I’m reading *for* you, and sometimes I feel I’m reading *as* you. I messaged you a few hours ago on Messenger. You didn’t see it. I thought perhaps you’re annoyed, that’s why you didn’t look… so I stopped bothering you! Let me tell you something… I’m really not well. And yet I’m alive… I think, isn’t that enough?
I want to send you a letter, but how can I? You don’t even talk much to me on the phone, so I’m forced to write here!
Tell me, have I ever asked you for anything? Like love, or time, or have I asked that you message me, or call me, or see me… I asked for nothing! I’ve loved you for all that you are—exactly as you are, with everything you have. I had no expectations of you… I speak in all honesty, never once!
Yes, I won’t hesitate to admit, there was one hope in my heart—that you would at least understand my love, whatever else you might not understand. That was the hope, but believe me, even that has faded lately, because I can’t explain to anyone how I feel. Life has turned upside down somehow! I like to think you are my greatest strength, that you love me most of all. Not only that, but I need to believe that no one will ever love me as much as you, so I can go on living. I’m going through a time of such harsh reality.
I desperately want to—just in my heart—lay my head on your chest for ten minutes and cry out loud. So desperately… but I’ve never told you. Perhaps this is an unreasonable plea to make of you.
Let me tell you a dream of mine today… I want so much to do something in both our names, something through which the helpless, the poor, the deprived people of society will benefit. That is my wish. For nearly five years I’ve cherished this desire in my heart, never told anyone. No one knows, only I and my God have known all this time, and today you know. I don’t know why today, but I’ve told you. I could have done it quietly without telling you, and you’d never have known. Truly, I will do this work. You don’t need to tell anyone about work undone, and for this sort of work, you needn’t tell anyone even after doing it. But I cannot keep silent with you. I cannot keep *anything* silent! Why is it so?
I want nothing from you! Be well with those you love.
There’s one more thing… in your writing, there’s always room for everyone. Has there ever been room for me? No, never. Not in your writing, not in your heart, nowhere… I’ve never had a place in anything of yours. I know I never will. Nothing is needed, my dear! Listen… I love you!
Where are you? What has become of you? Why don’t you come on Facebook? Have you left me alone on Facebook and gone?
Look, I’m terribly worried. Are you all right?
This boy—will you be the bangle on my wrist?