You look at me for consolation. You want me to tell you that things will be okay. That broken hearts can be put together. That the burning sensation will be over soon, just like a slide burn.
I want to tell you that. Believe me when I say that, dear. I want to tell you that life is not a sticky web of intricate complexities. I want to tell you that good things will happen to you. I want to tell you that the wind that blows lacks humidity and that the day you decide to wear a skirt is the day it won’t rain.
I want to tell you that you will be recognized for your deeds. That if you truly try for something, you will achieve it. That you will be immensely loved one day by someone. That your brows will never be creased with worries again.
It is today, while writing my last words, that I have realized the crushing weight of words. I always thought that writers were gods, right next to doctors. One heals the physical state of being and the other, the metaphysical. How absurdly did I believe that the two were on war? When all this time, both were making your survival easier.
Dear stranger, I want to tell you too many things. But I am speechless once again. My thoughts are like the starving people of this world. There are just too many to save. How do I give precedence to one over the other?
You are probably looking for some formula to survive life. If that is the case, this letter will be your biggest disappointment. It does not matter what variables you use, the answer will always be one-death.
I want to tell you, more than anything, that you will survive death. But you will not. You can accept that as a fact of life. You can delude yourself and neglect it. Or you can fear it. The fact remains uninfluenced by your perception. It never sought anyone’s approval and it prides in not seeking yours.
So why do I write these last words? Ah, alas. That is a good question. Questions, to me, value more than answers. The beautiful art of not knowing and wondering, what could be more intriguing?
I write this letter to tell you that I empathize. I don’t know you. I don’t know of your feats and errors. But I want you to know that I empathize. I understand that you don’t feel good today. I understand that you are hurt. I understand that you are confused. I understand that you are happy. I understand.
That is all my friend. I would like to thank you for being the accomplice of my last words. I now bid this world farewell. I will be back soon, who knows in what form. Until then however, it is a goodbye from me. For a goodbye is necessary before we meet again.
Yours truly,
A.
(P.S. This is fiction.)
