A Letter to a Poet

Since everybody is basically a romantic, you said, please take a moment to sit down a while and read this envelope-less letter of mine. Let me give you a word or two; let me tell you my story.

Sometimes when I am on my own, in the middle of the night staring at my room ceiling, it feels like there’s a question hanging above my head; what if I close my eyes tonight and wake up the next morning to be somebody else? Somebody with a different mind, different eyes. Somebody that is more… skeptical.

                

Maybe those nights of questions are my version of drowning in melancholy. And indeed, Sir, I am so drowned.

Here is my confession; I was born on September 26, 1996, raised in a religious family and went to recitation at least until I was 9. But deep down, Sir, as a child, I questioned my faith. I was thinking that if I was born to the family next door, I would have write quotes from the Bible right now. I was, am, thinking that it was not my call to pick up my own religion. How could a 9-years-old think of something like that?

I love no one, Sir. That is also a confession. I have got a trust issue since I wore red skirt to school. I remember talking to people and knowing that they were lying. I could see it right from their filthy eyes, how could I love people who fed me on lies? I could stand right in front of my own Father, Mother, and Brothers and still question myself about my love for them. Do I even care for them? Even less after the disintegration of my parents’ marriage a couple year back, I can say nothing more about love.

Now that I finally live on my own, now that I finally met you, I am scared, Sir. My next confession is that Macbeth was not really my thing, though I personally liked “Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?” and your explanation of it. There was no time I would give to sit on your class only to hear about those kinds of things. Don’t get me wrong, Sir. I adore the way words formation can be the most heavenly existence on earth, or even the deadliest weapon among men’s war. But that was not the thing I expect to get from you. It was the little chat, the extra topics, and the “Can you even imagine?”s that I enjoyed the most. And when I said “enjoyed”, I never meant “It gave me inner peace.” Those things terrify me, Sir. It is making me worse.

You once asked me why I choose the answer “Tragedy” for your question about which is higher between Comedy and Tragedy. I really wanted to say that it was simply because I loved Tragedy, and Tragedy loved me. It is probably the only thing I love. And by all means, Sir, Comedy is just a bunch of craps for me. I just prefer things that I can relate to. Comedy? I can’t.

I was born a pessimist, Sir, and it had becoming the template of my everyday life. You always said to all of us, “Don’t trust things easily”, “Don’t make it a second thought, but make it a third, a fourth, a fifth,” and then what is the point of trusting anyway? We trust, we’re being lied to. The concept is so simple, no, Sir? Why do we have to give a single damn to the things that we believe is untruthful?

Here is my last confession, I don’t need either to sleep or wake up first, Sir. 

I’ve become somebody else.

Somebody that is more skeptical than before.

To the unmemorable things I really wanted to say,

Ananda