Letter to Daughter IX

My cuddliestpie plumpum C,

Hi! Momie is exasperated. The length and depth of love she fetches from so many corners and so much to hide away, some to let go, rest never to be fulfilled, is tiring. Given the introduction, I believe you can well understand I am in a foul mood. Filthy, to be precise. I am having to sit and study, C! It is not funny! Every time my fingers itch and ache to return to this open, more inviting tab of the laptop, a sinister portion of my rational mind kills me softly with constant whispers, repeating that I am going down to the level of committing a crime no less than that of an unplanned bank robbery. Cccccccccccccccccccccc. C-c-c. If I could, I would drown myself in the sea.

I hate this deadly double-bind in me. I will let out the secret to (only) you today. Momie hates, detests, resents studying. This business of studying that is, for petty things like scores and selections. How impossibly limiting is that, little one? No, you must forget the contents of this letter right away after having read it, yet, just listen, this one time. Momie hates turning pages when she is under the pressure of what went away in the page turned last. How can she pay attention when she is busy remembering what she did not?

Momie thus returns to what she does best, does in the excitement of being able to share and does in utter helplessness -- write a letter. And tonight it had to be you. The new keyboard is absolutely flawless, the keys are singing, as are the clouds. It would be so much more melodious, these hours, storytelling about characters who would tiptoe out of the keys and tap-dance in full rhythm with the intricacies of a plot. They would wear costumes of affairs and attention. Some would kill, some would lie, some others simply love. Or, love simply. 

But look, they are not. I loom larger than them tonight. Me, in my utmost misery of becoming grander than their outcome. My pathetic shortcoming of restlessness, my inability to prepare. I want to fly instead. Is momie mad, C? May be. She wants to fly into your arms, be wrapped in their sausage-size. I pray C, that you are never bored, or come to such a situation where you must study in spite of yourself, and should you still, you do it minus Momie's record breaking attention-span. I pray for you to soil your hands with colours, maybe of the soil or that of sweat. Get out of that page, and live, C. Like I never could. Run. Fall down. Get the dirt on your knees. Bleed. Put on the ghungroo, dance. Or, dance without it. Get the piercings done. Do. Travel. Disobey, but do not disrespect.

Immerse yourself in the air around, breathe it in. Fearlessly. 

And then when you smile, share it with Momie :) Love. In all its muchness.