day 95

September 19

My Silent Confidant:

It is with great trepidation that I write to you again. You are both a savior and a curse. You mock me and yet I depend so greatly on you to live through this quiet pain. And you do so by being so silent, so confident and assured of knowing everything - Everything! I do not have to confide in you. Instead, I am finding solace in speaking out. It is an indescribably dependence on you - you know what I am thinking - and this is also the reason that I must escape from you one day.

Alas, I am still here, writing this letter to you. Please do not reply. I dare not know what you think of me. Perhaps, I am such a loser; I cannot be depended on to pull myself out of this abyss of depression. Please! Be patient with me. Let me once again pour out my worries and anxieties.

I remember how once, after severing (or so I thought) ties with my ex-lover, I spoke to a dear friend. I broke down and threatened to lock myself forever in my pathetic room, with my books and my soaked bolster. And yet, this dear friend was there for me and came to hear my complaints. With that one meeting, I could draw strength to face another day. Till this date, I have my dear friend to thank; and I betrayed her by getting back with my ex-lover, even though my friend made extreme efforts to convince me to leave her once and for all. I did not. Only if I had! Now, I lost that dear friend - (more than once I did!) I lost my ex-lover as well, who true to my friend's forecast, rained her acid dew on me and left me for a richer man. Poor me. Poor o me. What can I do more to hurl myself deeper?

And yet, such a 'poor me' irritates me. This vulnerability sickens me. I thank you for being silent - not telling me what to do or say - and your silence along convinces me that any amount of imagination will never help me grasp the infinite depth of your thoughts. I know you laugh at such a suggestion. If only I knew what to do! I hate how a broken man cries out for some help, at the expense of someone who genuinely wants to help. But broken, this man cannot listen, but listens only to the grain of his voice. But torn, this woman cannot hear, but listens only to the sobbing and her pathetic nature to fall for lies. But I lie too; I lie that I am strong, mighty, variations of the same, and I could get out of this stumble. Alas, I cannot! And I write as evidence of this. Please do not reply. It irks me to be reminded that I am equally pathetic as all those crying souls. What a sick and tormented world! We all share this innate need to be heard - crying, screaming, gnashing of teeth and the shaking of bones against bones - pain of the trembling kind, slow to go away but as sure as the wind blowing against the midnight glory. Please do not reject me when my next letter comes. But if it does not, I am dead. Heed no more from me. And I quiver at the mere thought of my next letter.

I still remain,

Your devoted, nameless friend.