23rd December, 2020
H...... . . . e . .y...,
You know what, I'm exhausted. You may have already noticed that I'm dragging myself through this. Now that I'm at the fag end of this purgatory, my resilience is starting to crack. I'm threatened that I'd shatter under the pressure of your tender love notes, that I find nestled in unexpected corners of our home - sometimes between the couch, sometimes in the fridge, like an old, dried half of a lemon.
You tell me, that I don't need to do this anymore - squeeze myself into symbols of permanence, when in the grand scheme of things, we are as temporary as an ice cube on a palm . But I do, I do need it for myself, if not for you.
Every word now feels like a resistance. Every thought, a revolution. I have to scoop out every last bit of idea that I have of you from inside my soul, and wring out every last tear, too. I have emptied out mostly everything I've ever felt with you. And now I'm left with nothing. No grudge, no anger, no expectations, no love, just nothing.
It feels like moving out of a home, our home, with me sitting in the middle of emptiness, with all these memories packed into corrugated boxes, still writing letters to you. The windows feel naked without their curtains. The walls look pale with melancholy. The leaves of December are falling off one after another. They are already carrying away the packages, one by one along with them. They want me to hurry. They are waiting downstairs for me. But I can't decide if I should bury you or burn you.
I thought about it and it feels too overwhelming to burn your pretty face. With every heavy alphabet, I'm burying this corpse of you, that I had been carrying for so long. It felt too precious, to allow it to be turned into dust. But with termites of time chewing away its edges, there is little left to salvage anymore.
I had anticipated most of this. In fact, I literally hoped for it. This fatigue, this weariness, this ache in my bones that finally depletes me of you. I might crawl through the last lap, but I will pull myself through, somehow, anyhow, from between these lines, to outside the box.