Looking back, I remember a time when I used to come to this space — my private corner of the internet — to write about things in my life which I assumed mattered. How strange it is indeed to see each thought and sentiment committed to a mere piece of paper or pixel; and even beyond strange, how daunting it is to realize that someone you care about could potentially be reading these words and squeezing them through their brain, assigning significance to your articulation.
So right now I would like to write about you; and not simply because it comes without effort, but rather, because it has taken this much sorrowful time to command a line of words which effectively follows the chaotic procession in my mind. And still, I am not sure if these words mean anything to you. Or me. Or if they should mean anything at all.
Let me say, that I know you were in distress. And I tried to write you back [a hand-written letter, like before] several times, but with each passing month, it became harder to find the right words. How does one express anger that is subdued and calm and silent, when behind the facade is restless bitterness and fury? Perhaps, I should answer your question first.
I remember you asked me: why? The reason is that we were both at different stages in our lives; I wanted to abandon the infantile pettiness and drama which surrounded me and was so clearly part of your life. Despite your feelings, it felt unfair of me to ask that you reconsider relationships with your careless and selfish friends, whom I did not trust for reasons I gave you. And with this thinking, I began a battle in my head. A war.
And in the end, I knew it was impossible and cruel for me to ask those things. Because what I wanted, was for you to sacrifice an important part of your life, so that I would know that I could trust you. So when I used the word ‘bad’, it was to express that I could not agree with my own selfish insecurities. And then I told myself I did not care. We all tell ourselves we don’t care at some point, and the frequency in which I blatantly lie to myself ceased to amaze me a long time ago.
My frustrations with you were because I wanted you to be stronger; to do the things you wanted to do, instead of letting people run over you. I knew you were better than all that, even if you think that is bullshit.
My only solution was to hope that time would grace me — that one day perhaps we would find each other at better places in our respective lives. This is undoubtedly a stupid solution, but it is also the only one I know to be true.
I still remember, of course, your words and your eyes. And the in-this-moment snowy happiness which caused us to forget the surrounding misery. Or the absurdly late phone calls. All I know for certain, is that you were so happy and I was so sad, and as time flies by, I am glad I did not drown you in my miserable puddle.
Now time has gone and we have changed. When I lay in bed restless, tossing between the ever-lingering sheets and blankets on these cold wintry nights, I pull out those letters and my mind travels to you and wonders if I ever could have made you as happy as you deserved to be.