Here is what I had really wanted to say but instead wrote that text that I wrote to you:
We have done this before – this ominous exchange of texts which serves our deepest desires to remove ourselves from our loneliness. And, even before, when we had been happy, writing pieces of words dedicated to each other, we knew that there was something unholy, unclean about this attempted intimacy. We were like the barks of an old tree, hugging onto the trunk as long as we could, for the fear of being abandoned in the thick undergrowth beneath. And, from where I saw us, conniving some time out in the middle of the night, I probably even thought of us as a growing ray of warmth.
Yes, I did not write that but I would have wanted you to hear it. I had grown to draw hopes around us, a perimeter surrounding older fears and heartbreaks. And, I believed that maybe this time, as we kept each other at such close distance, we would be able to protect each other and let our dreams grow. I believed that somewhere over the horizon, the sun would rise again and it would be a beautiful morning. So, I let it grow, what it seemed so natural between us.
And, then one day, we stopped. I don’t remember whether the moon was full or waxing, I don’t remember whether any planetary movements affected our would-be possibilities, but something was wrong. And, indeed it was, for our silence grew and seasons changed. So I expect you to understand why it was a surprise to see your text this morning again. It reeked of all its old familiarity and it scared me. I had convinced myself by this time that I had outgrown whatever it was that you could have offered me and that there were only brighter days ahead for me and I wished them for you as well.
This anger is not dedicated towards you. It is just that all the men that I have learned to separate with a piece of my heart have rendered me in this state as I am at this moment. It is your utter and solo nonchalance towards the thing that has caused the hurt. It is about your quickness to offer a generic apology to me, where I want an apology instead for a specific thing, a particular event. And, not that I want anything much, only natural things for people to expect – respect, love, tenderness, intimacy, and care.
I have learned to toss such apologies and have wondered many nights about their sincerity. So, I let them linger as long as they can, believing that if any truth rested in their formation, they would remain heavy and not vapourize into the dry air.
But, really, this is what I want to say. I am a sensitive person. All the things, those microcosmic inspirations that you had said before have raised my hopes high. But, what you did eventually broke me down to have me sitting down to recollect the shards of my esteem. Most of it all I take rejection very dubiously and even dramatically. And, had it not been for the slow recollection of your memory, I would have even believed that you were true and that you would do all things to mend.
It is only natural for me then, to reject. There is no harm intended, I am only doing this to protect myself. And that I don’t care about you, that is not true. For I said what I said to you and not what I am saying now. And, if it makes you feel any better, know that I say all this with a heart that is heavy and angry too. For love has always come to me in such drought measures, bringing too with it, doubts, confusions, and unnecessary ramblings. But, I guess what has been done has been done. I will continue to write. Though you will feature only as anonymous and I am doing that because I care about you.
Now, I will move along, waiting for the day, when I will no longer remember whether the moon was full or waxing on this day.