How are you? I hope you are well. Really, I hope. I know if you see this letter ever what you would say. Pretentious bustard and you’d punch me in my face. Suddenly today I got this urge to write to you. May be it’s the fever or the insomnia or maybe because I spent the last night at a wedding and thought about us sitting there. Yes, contrary to what you think I really think about US. Oh, I have so much to say to you.
I have moved to a new flat. It’s on the 8th floor. From the balcony, which is a bit slanted downwards, you get this amazing view of Uttara skyline. In north it’s like a garden of rectangle monolithic white blocks of bricks and cement unlike south, where you can see the city limits and the beginning of the green field by the river. And people so far below and away. I like the distance as it is.
Why am I writing this? May be because I know you haven’t read my last massage. So you don’t know my explanation. My side of it. No, I think I am okay with that. I hope when you tell your story, I am the villain in it. I hope when you recount this tale of a raven haired bespectacled trickster who broke the heart of the girl from the green mountains you also finish with a happy ending.
You once prophesied long before our story officially started that I would cry one day for you when you are gone. Remember those days B? We were obsessed with death. Then we got infected with life. For a time after the end of it I thought that was where I was heading. Tears and blackness. But you see I was there once before. I came from that twilight land of Melancholia. I walked those dusty depression streets barefoot before. I once sat in the grass in a park and cried and realized no one noticed. People jogged by and couples laughed and kids played and no one noticed me sitting amidst them bawling my eyes out. There are stories of that time you never heard from me. I told you of the time I laid on the terrace in rain for hours and watched the water drops fall from sky. But I didn’t tell you about how close I came to cutting my veins earlier that day. I’ll never go there again. And I hope you don’t go there as well.
Why am I writing this? I don’t know. It is weekend and I’m tired and a bit sick. I like life more now. May be because, I understand its absurdity now. I actually go home more often. I don’t wander in the alleys and nooks I don’t know the way out of anymore with imaginary companions. I daydream more now. I listen to songs in languages I don’t know, over and over again.
I hope you are well. I hope your story continues without me.