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Dearest,
I am about to attempt to write once more. Attempt,
being the operative word. It’s been ages since I’ve last come up with a decent
piece of literature, creative or otherwise. It seems that I have lost my mojo
along with your departure. I swore to give up writing when you left. As a
matter of fact I swore to give up a lot of things then. But circumstances
change. People change. I can now will myself to utter your name without even
flinching. I think I’m making progress. After all, it’s been six months. Six
morbid months of introspection and affirmation. I now understand. Although I
still encounter episodes of loath and aversion towards you, I am finally
picking up the pieces of my broken ego. To tell you frankly, I have mourned for
you. There wasn’t a day that my heart didn't seem to explode whenever I thought of
you. To see your face in every person I go out with was torture in itself. I’ll
spare you the gory details since this letter is supposed to be the final note
in the bittersweet symphony that has been playing in my head. Instead, let me
thank you for making me the person I am today. Thank you for altering my
thoughts on love. Love, after all, is just a popular sentiment often appealed
to by the weak of heart and mind. In reality, love is merely a fallacy; its
truth only imagined and misconstrued. Don’t get me wrong though. I have not
become a cynic. It’s just that I have become a non-believer. Thank you for
giving me the opportunity to restructure my belief system. If it weren’t for
you I would still be wasting my time chasing an illusion that could possibly
land me in a psych ward sooner or later. You have been my wake up call—harsh
and brutal but nonetheless effective. I would gladly return the favor, if not
to you then to someone else. Just as I was, there’s always a willing victim
dying to bare her body and soul to an indifferent lover. And like you, I, too,
shall evanesce.
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