Hi!
You needed to be written to. Replies, like holidays, are things you hardly get to see anyway. I know not of another person who writes letters so compulsively that she even believes she needs to compose one to self. Three times over. At one level, this might seem pretty crazy, while at another, perfectly exquisite. To receive a letter from self. You should actually complete the process, take a print of this, sign, seal and post it -- the good old way. And then forget about it. And one day, when you are probably in the middle of two phone calls and thirteen texts and forty nine stories, managing everything while having cold tea and passing expert consultancy, you will be shocked to the bone to receive and read it.
K, you are now in this process of writing letters to all those who 'call' at you, yet, you hardly know if they do. Many others, however, do. I know you feel pleasantly embarrassed when they say that as a piece of writing, the letters are novel and thoughtful and, a habit. I also know most of the times you do not understand this consistency -- your writing, and their reading. I am aware of the many millions of doubt infesting your super-active head this moment and the more than million strings of determination trying desperately to tie them down. You are such a beast, K, I feel bad for you sometimes, and at others, immensely good. That is what, you do not even command one direct response! Doesn't this constant oscillation trouble you? Of course it does. Why am I even asking.
I loved it that you hand delivered your letter to the car. I also happened to read your hundred undulating thoughts while you were doing so -- that you are a perfect moron, that, no, you are fairly decent, that you are over-thinking, and that you were being overtly luxurious in living out a simple wish. I really wish to hold your hand and hold it tight when you are breaking down into hundred fragments, trying to figure out how is it that you are writing out the thoughts so articulately, when living isn't exactly so. Earlier I thought it was funny to see you curious about who your readers in Spain and France and Ireland are. But I quickly grasped you were suffering, not out of curiosity, but a genuine perplex that such was not possible.
It hurts me to see that you are handling the double pain of facing your ability, and appreciation for it. It hurts me further because I do not know what to do about it. Perhaps just reiterate things you already get to hear. Or, keep things unsaid. Unlettered.
I die with you, each time afresh, when you disbelieve in yourself,
K.
K, you are now in this process of writing letters to all those who 'call' at you, yet, you hardly know if they do. Many others, however, do. I know you feel pleasantly embarrassed when they say that as a piece of writing, the letters are novel and thoughtful and, a habit. I also know most of the times you do not understand this consistency -- your writing, and their reading. I am aware of the many millions of doubt infesting your super-active head this moment and the more than million strings of determination trying desperately to tie them down. You are such a beast, K, I feel bad for you sometimes, and at others, immensely good. That is what, you do not even command one direct response! Doesn't this constant oscillation trouble you? Of course it does. Why am I even asking.
I loved it that you hand delivered your letter to the car. I also happened to read your hundred undulating thoughts while you were doing so -- that you are a perfect moron, that, no, you are fairly decent, that you are over-thinking, and that you were being overtly luxurious in living out a simple wish. I really wish to hold your hand and hold it tight when you are breaking down into hundred fragments, trying to figure out how is it that you are writing out the thoughts so articulately, when living isn't exactly so. Earlier I thought it was funny to see you curious about who your readers in Spain and France and Ireland are. But I quickly grasped you were suffering, not out of curiosity, but a genuine perplex that such was not possible.
It hurts me to see that you are handling the double pain of facing your ability, and appreciation for it. It hurts me further because I do not know what to do about it. Perhaps just reiterate things you already get to hear. Or, keep things unsaid. Unlettered.
I die with you, each time afresh, when you disbelieve in yourself,
K.
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