2/26 Richmond Mansion,
Opp. Gosford Park,
Gorthica Avenue,
Bombay - 400009
Dearest Glory,
There was a time, not too long ago, when I mocked those who said: "I have been hurt. I cannot love anymore." I would smirk, twist my smile into a curve reminiscent of the letter s, and nod and say to myself: "They sound so idiotic."
Little did I realize I would, after a while, sail quite dreadfully in the same boat. And mourn the demise of my happy self with far greater and splendid an extravaganza than the ones I mocked. Yes, I was hurt oh so deeply when I was refused the affections due to me. And I did start a salty stream of tears that flowed quite consistently for a while as I sat in sack cloth and struggled to not look the crying diva I so hated to identify with. Well, I took it all in my stride though initially I wanted to simply forget I ever had a relationship to cry and howl about. I thought perhaps, I'll be able to overcome it sooner. But no sooner had I decided to do that than I realized I was actually making more of an effort to forget than to cry, mourn, and let go.
So, I let go. If you were to spy on me during that period, you would have seen the watery mass of mess I had melted into. I would think every day to be the last day I will ever shed a tear or look glum as I remembered how we were together. But no, as the day walked away to make way for the night, I would inevitably realized another day will have to be spent this way.
You see what hurts horribly is the fact that he doesn't even understand my love for him. I remember he would mock and laugh at those who howled in pain after being dumped. So, I know quite well that if I had to call him and sob about how deep and painful the wounds were, he would have said say yes I understand, include a paragraph of sentences that made no sense, and then laugh at me later.
The point is I can't even hurt him. For he cannot even feel hurt! And that irritates as much as a murderer dangling a knife over your head for more than a week and refusing to slice your head in two.
Oh that reminds me! There were times when I had murderous visions of his throat slit and he standing at the door as if the slit had nothing to do with his body! At times, as I would sit alone in my room, I remember I saw myself take a sword and slice open his head, but even then he never screamt nor did he beg for mercy. In the end, as the whole savage ritual would fold up and disappear from my head, it was I alone who would force the intention of murder out of my bones. And that is because I did, and I still do, have a slender but strong thread of sanity that ties my thoughts and prevents them from running amock.
Even now, if he reads this, I can give you in writing he'll smirk, shake his head, and say: "These women! All the same. They love to make a big hue and cry about everything. They just get too dependent on their men." And the next moment, he will rip me into shreds in his conversation with his darling best friend.
Well, such is life. You get what you want and after a while what you want doesn't want you. I remember someone - for the life of me I don't quite recollect who - said what goes around comes around. By that logic, the what I let go around has come right back to me. That I agree. Somewhere, sometime, I might have acted nasty and ruthless etc etc. But I did make amends and later, I did see to it that I gently let people down.
I wonder whether he will ever make amends. Or will he just continue to sit there dry-eyed and deadpan and say:
I have a shell and the shell has me;
Eat we of each other and like it do we;
Don't want another; as we can't do without each other;
For I give the shell nothing and the shell gives me nothing either!
Sigh! Do write in whenever you have the time.
Write about the buses that stop right in front of your apartment, write about the shops that are just a walk away from your residence - actually write about anything that does not need words of consolation to finish their description.
Your affectionate sister,
Elizabeth Bennet
Opp. Gosford Park,
Gorthica Avenue,
Bombay - 400009
Dearest Glory,
There was a time, not too long ago, when I mocked those who said: "I have been hurt. I cannot love anymore." I would smirk, twist my smile into a curve reminiscent of the letter s, and nod and say to myself: "They sound so idiotic."
Little did I realize I would, after a while, sail quite dreadfully in the same boat. And mourn the demise of my happy self with far greater and splendid an extravaganza than the ones I mocked. Yes, I was hurt oh so deeply when I was refused the affections due to me. And I did start a salty stream of tears that flowed quite consistently for a while as I sat in sack cloth and struggled to not look the crying diva I so hated to identify with. Well, I took it all in my stride though initially I wanted to simply forget I ever had a relationship to cry and howl about. I thought perhaps, I'll be able to overcome it sooner. But no sooner had I decided to do that than I realized I was actually making more of an effort to forget than to cry, mourn, and let go.
So, I let go. If you were to spy on me during that period, you would have seen the watery mass of mess I had melted into. I would think every day to be the last day I will ever shed a tear or look glum as I remembered how we were together. But no, as the day walked away to make way for the night, I would inevitably realized another day will have to be spent this way.
You see what hurts horribly is the fact that he doesn't even understand my love for him. I remember he would mock and laugh at those who howled in pain after being dumped. So, I know quite well that if I had to call him and sob about how deep and painful the wounds were, he would have said say yes I understand, include a paragraph of sentences that made no sense, and then laugh at me later.
The point is I can't even hurt him. For he cannot even feel hurt! And that irritates as much as a murderer dangling a knife over your head for more than a week and refusing to slice your head in two.
Oh that reminds me! There were times when I had murderous visions of his throat slit and he standing at the door as if the slit had nothing to do with his body! At times, as I would sit alone in my room, I remember I saw myself take a sword and slice open his head, but even then he never screamt nor did he beg for mercy. In the end, as the whole savage ritual would fold up and disappear from my head, it was I alone who would force the intention of murder out of my bones. And that is because I did, and I still do, have a slender but strong thread of sanity that ties my thoughts and prevents them from running amock.
Even now, if he reads this, I can give you in writing he'll smirk, shake his head, and say: "These women! All the same. They love to make a big hue and cry about everything. They just get too dependent on their men." And the next moment, he will rip me into shreds in his conversation with his darling best friend.
Well, such is life. You get what you want and after a while what you want doesn't want you. I remember someone - for the life of me I don't quite recollect who - said what goes around comes around. By that logic, the what I let go around has come right back to me. That I agree. Somewhere, sometime, I might have acted nasty and ruthless etc etc. But I did make amends and later, I did see to it that I gently let people down.
I wonder whether he will ever make amends. Or will he just continue to sit there dry-eyed and deadpan and say:
I have a shell and the shell has me;
Eat we of each other and like it do we;
Don't want another; as we can't do without each other;
For I give the shell nothing and the shell gives me nothing either!
Sigh! Do write in whenever you have the time.
Write about the buses that stop right in front of your apartment, write about the shops that are just a walk away from your residence - actually write about anything that does not need words of consolation to finish their description.
Your affectionate sister,
Elizabeth Bennet
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