Disclaimer: This story is purely fictional (even if you don't think so). It has absolutely no reference to my life or that of any person that you may know. Is not a message to anybody, nor am I hinting at anything. This is just my first attempts at writing fiction.
Someone, a long long time ago when she was living another life, had told her that she wrote the best when she was in deep pain, when her tears blotched the paper she was writing on. It had then lead to an argument between them. She had said that a writer should be able to write at all times, that the words should flow with a tingle, like the brook that they were sitting besides, in that other life. It was not a serious argument; that someone else was not being too serious either.
And then suddenly one day, she was called upon by the world to write a letter to the one she loved the most. She had, by then, begun to understand that she had an almost physical need to write, everything else seemed secondary. She knew that the day she could live without writing would be the day she had to stop her thoughts from struggling under her skin, fighting with each other and many things else to change into the words she wrote here and there. She understood that she had to write, it was not a mere obligation, but almost a force she simply had to comply with to stop the voices in her head from shouting in her ears.
And so she was asked to write a letter. That was the only brief that she had to write a letter to someone she loved a lot. She was not told what she was to write about, or even why. Just like she had, countless number of times all her life, done, she was asked to string her words on any number of thoughts she wished to decipher and express, almost in abstracts. And so she began.
The first problem was whom she would write to. She had been blessed with several people that she loved in life and most of them loved her back. She loved God too. And she loved her pet. And her friends. And her writing. But she did not want to write to those who knew that she loved them. On a cold night, she looked out of the window in her room. If she craned her neck, she could see a glimpse of the crescent moon. Interspersed with the blue lights she could spot from a corner of the city she lived in, she could count a few dozen stars, none from her favourite Orion constellation though. And then it struck her. No matter whom she referred to in her letter, the others would get offended. "It's best if I address this letter to someone non-existent, someone I hope to meet someday," she told herself. "What if you never meet this person?" asked an evil voice, but she quickly told that cynic in her to shut up, before it unleashed another painful stream of thought.
And so she sat down to write. Dear.... for lack of a name or a better term, she wrote,
Dear love of my life,
I am to write a letter to you. Don't ask me about what or why. It is one of those things that the world has asked me to do, to express myself and let this be an outlet for all that I want to say. I wonder what I want to write about when I don't know you, when I am not even sure you will ever belong to me completely....
The words began to trail off, leading up to her old desires and many little wishes. So what if I have not met this person, she thought, her stubborn streak making an appearance there. She was to express something in the letter and in the realm of the abstract, she had the privilege of fantasy that her real life seldom allowed her. And so she fantasized.
It was easy to convert her fantasy into fiction. Pretence. With a smile, she pretended that she had already met this person, this love of her life. She began to think that they met every day. Sometimes when mundanities of life kept them away, they would still meet each other in dreams and thoughts; the physical realm was inconsequential when their hearts were constantly in conversation. The soul was one that they shared anyways.
The writer in her thought of putting into verses and one liners her love for this person. And she miserably failed every time she tried expressing how much this person meant to her. But here was a chance, in reality, she thought to do just that, say all that she had to.
I used to think I could express myself in my words, that I could, without much effort, pour out my thoughts onto paper. But you my dear, because of you, I seem to be at a loss every time I try to tell you how much you mean to me. There was never a definite moment when I let you become my life; you tell me that you know exactly when that happened with you.
If I were to tell a story of us, I would not start from the beginning, for, the sequence is not so important as much as where we now are is. I would narrate those little incidents when you made me angry, when I wanted to cry and yet you made me laugh; when you let me break down; when you were there, always. Flowers and music and food and rain, I would tell stories of moments when you and I shared all this. When we built all those memories that makes life so beautiful.....
And then other memories butted into her fantasy. Other not too nice stories that she wouldn't have minded narrating either. But the letter was to be a happy one; she wanted it to be so. This love of her life knew all there was to know about her, knew why she was the person she had become and loved her for all of that. But still she wrote about herself, she wrote of her village and her school and her friends and her past loves. She wrote because she was always better with written words. The letter got longer but she couldn't stop. There was a life to explain to the one she wanted to spend her every day with.
She wrote how this person had taught her to smile and worked hard to keep her that way. She wrote about the differences her life had seen and how she was happy and how she wanted to remain so all her life. She wrote that she loved this person more than anything or anyone else in the world; how they could both look into each other's eyes and drink from that pool of longing to the background of their song. She wrote all that she wanted to feel, all that she knew existed for her and her alone, somewhere, in another world.
A deep sigh escaped her. The coffee before her was growing cold and she needed to submit that letter to the world soon. She checked her mobile phone for messages, there were, as always, none. She knew that there was, in her present world, several other things she had to do, shop for groceries, do the laundry, the most mundane assortment of mundanities. But the fantasy had to be completed, at least in her letter.
The love of my life, what can I say more that I have not already told you in my actions and the love that you see? I take refuge today in old wise words that people resort to when they want to console themselves when in pain. I must let you go now without making you feel guilty. Nothing any of us ever do is just our fault; it is a concoction of several of us, of time and situations. This journey we have to make separately, you say we must... she wrote, hoping it would be the last time they had to stay apart.... We shall journey together even in absentia. You and me. Us. I write even when I am pained, this is my refuge. And one day, I know you will be back. I shall wait for you and I shall not talk of time or space then or now. I shall wait.....
And then she finished the letter. "I wanted the letter to have a happily ever after," she thought. Another sigh escaped her. But she had to end it that way. She knew that even fantasies should not be too good, the reality would hurt more so later.
After handing over the letter, she shut herself away with her words again. And waited. For the love of her life to be back to her.