Write me a letter

Go on then. Pick up your pieces. Let me see what they look like. You are not your fragments anymore, I know. They won’t completely fit you. You’ve become more of a void now, not one that exists within but one that is the basis of your very existence. You find solace in that emptiness, I know. Your being has been the guardian of so many secrets for so long. Secrets that you haven’t even told yourself. Secrets, you are too scared to confront. Secrets, your skin wears with all the shades of grey.

So many summers have drenched in the warmth of September rain. Neither did you allow the autumn breeze to wash away the dust nor did you open the door to some sunshine.

Go on then today. Write me a letter. You know you have been dragging this weight for so many seasons. So many arguments, discussions and dialogues have you been a part of, with yourself. So consumed you feel now, that you simply make yourself understand it as a part of your self.

Your darkness has evolved into a mature being now. You wear your scars with pleasure, you’ve even learned to decorate your secrets with scarves and shades. So vulnerable you feel that you’ve built your whole world in an illusion. Security, is what you seek in that cage of yours.

Go on then, write me something. Trace the curves of your own darkness. That old writing pad of yours, the one that you sang your silly love stories to, craves for a careless embrace. All those nights you wasted feeling monotonous, she absorbed some of your emptiness. That writing pad is almost completely desolated now.

Get out of yourself then, throw some colour in those blank pages. Aren’t you exhausted of being held now? Can you recall what it felt like to have a hold of something, a pen, perhaps? Do you remember how the alphabets felt with the smooth embraces of your curves? For so many years, you gave your scars a shelter, let words undress them today.

Write me a letter, please.