LETTERS WRITTEN TO RAIN

 

So I'm finally writing you back .Years later and I've summed up the courage, a little hell and hopefully some well presented words. 

I read old emails the other day in the middle of getting a few insignificant things done, over and over, just circling familiarity. 

They sounded beautiful, 

perhaps just as you were from when I felt I knew you; in all their honesty. It felt like a performance of a life time, CPR, giving life to a deflated organ again. I felt I wanted to write you beautiful things. Abandon my creative pain and otherwise relatable version of what it looks like to be beautifully broken, but I like it here. 

It feels easy, even though it isn't. Rebuilding, fixing and mending, this time without running from terrorizing memories that devoured all the smoke in my lungs I pulled as weapons of mass destruction, killing everything that was of you, from the soles of my feet to the cracks in my spine, from those kisses. It was almost like breathing. I wanted to add some big gestures in the form of hope and for peace sake for pete's sake. I don't know if I can. 

In the midst of chaos, mentally having conversations with you. You seemed more softer and calmer, and it fuels my rage. I don't understand this. How bravely I've made you a version of me from a perspective that has accepted the idea that you too may be flawed, in the absense of anger and resentment ofcourse. However, I can't get those words out of my head. They're etched into my soul and for a while I'd thought you were right to feel as you did, and perhaps the same thing that tore into the realm of my being would be my cure. Give me my confidence back Sir, lest I wither into nothingness Oh Hero intently so God sent. Merely a foolish thought wouldn't you agree?

I understand quite a number of things now. I made you aware of my walls, strongholds withstanding all manner of sticks and stones so built up. I haven't told you what it is they're made of. 

ANGER.

It is anger. Pent up aggression I tried to kill with liquor for a good 2 months some years ago when you were a boy incapably loving in delusion. 

Anger from how I let it all happen. 

Yes, how long later I'm still out of body with this concept, a tug of war from this other side so timid and counting peace from the shattered pieces of all the times I felt any pull to surrender self. 

It is what fueled my words, a smell, a memory, and as of this past week and this one, it is in my dreams. They're soft yet tearing. They remind me of my reality, almost as if rebooting me to my intent. So clear I see it, I see that one, I see her, a bunch of strangers, I see them. Then I see you. Although with you I haven't needed dreams. I've felt you inside me, I've felt you in the songs I heard, I felt you more when it rained. 

 

I remember I spent nights searching, for clues of your existence in the books I read. I found hate instead and over exaggerated versions of people meeting encapsulating nonsensical moments of love, or something like it.

So someday, when you find this, I'll explain why I write sad little tales of a reluctance to heal from this one little thing you said, I'll show you what's inside and let you redefine as you will what others have failed. Extract what you can, perhaps what you want. That one day, soon I assume, I'll be gentler, more malleable, less vicious and cautiously rehearsed in my response to your kind. For now, You're trapped within these words only I can find you in, where healing slides slowly on ground made of rusted nails.