As you could see, above is my mobile letter sent to a foreigner friend, whom I got to know through Slowly (a lettering application). Dave was a good person, he read my letters thoroughly and responsed to every word of them. We began with the slice of life content, then with the experiences and the latest was the secret. He said he would neither leave my letters nor disappear suddenly without notifying me. It was 2 months ago, I wrote this to him and he never replied me again. I guess it was so miserable and heavy at the same time for him to take and go with the flow. That was why I felt completely normal without his correspondence, but I did not feel normal at all with what I had written to him.
I did not realize that I had carried those tons of wounds for the whole time ever since my heart started knowing what pain was. I did not take it so seriously, I thought things were simple and I would survive through like how I had always done. Not until the moment I wrote had I considered all of them running inside me so crystal clear and acheful, had I considered part of myself getting addicted to ail. I found my inspiration in sadness and grief, and I figured out more people would love me if I let them know about my painful core. They became a repeating circle in which I served my ache and my ache served my fantasy. Dave knew and he no longer replied. But it was fine enough to me. He created between us kind of trust so that I was open to tell him, which was actually, talking to myself. I'd rather thank him for that than go through the roof.
However, once there is a will, there is a way. After all, I could learn a lesson about caring for my own sentiments. Now then, I have no idea if those wounds have been healed yet, or else I am building a more solid amour for my heart that they can not make their roots pierce through deeper and deeper. I mean, they are good news in both ways right? I am in the time being strong enough to protect myself, so the insecurity will have to stay back I guess. Loneliness is something has tagged along with me for the years I have been existing, something would embrace me whenever I cried over a buried love, for me to know I had chosen it somehow in my past lives ever. Since at the end of the day, we are all alone, before stepping on the heaven gate, aren't we? Sympathy is a hard thing, I have learnt to sympathize the fact that no one would sincerely relate to my stuffs, as I can not relate to theirs perfectly. Coming at last, the incapacity of taking back surprisingly turned into an ability to give without reciprocation. So maybe I will give out until all of me are drained out, until I run out of my abundance, until I return to nothing but I will be just fine.
Still, I am not so sure. I am still on my journey to reach the best of me, and sometimes things keep confusing me when the differences between us become so huge and extreme, or when my instinctive thoughts live up. I love that I can remain my calmness, yet it hits me whenever I listen to my inside scream and whining. It has never been easy to accept how crumbling I have become to settle it as down as possible. I know so well that it has to be me to embrace those broken pieces and seed into those cracks the bud of appreciation. Nevertheless, it is just, the exhaustion would come occasionally and the longing for someone's help would rise, then being left in utter despair. I am supposed to learn to feel enough, but the only thing I rarely feel enough is "love". And that is so wrong on me.
That is why I am now trying to adapt to the truth I need to change and upgrade myself to the higher, to be proud of my own beauty and wild aspirations. Everything, just to make me cut off the chase after improper thing and start to chase the better level of me.
Even though, I can hear the child sobbing quietly in bit of lonesome nights and shadowed paths.
I am sincerely sorry, my little baby.
And sincerely thank you, Dave.