4. Happiness in incompletion
December 1st, 2010.
Dear you-know-who-I-am-and-I-know-who-you-are,
I'm tired.
My eyes pain when I try too hard to concentrate on what they cannot clearly see. My ears are weary of hearing things that have been cyclically repeating, over and over again. My tongue feels loose and detached from me, no longer the window by which I express myself. I feel desensitized, my feelings too old, too used and too small, ever to be shined upon by a passing light again.
I'm disappointed.
My heart wrenches into more than just halves when I see how simply people abandon their values. My mouth feels dry when I realise that, whatever people may claim, they still have, in fact, nothing. There is a stinging, excruciating feeling in the back of my eyes when I hear what they utter unknowingly; such stupidities that seal their fates. I cannot help bowing my head in shame when I feel what they think about life. They are wrong, and I have never been so disillusioned in my life. They thwarted my dreams, and I taste nothing but humble truths at the back of my throat. This sensation won't disappear.
I'm deficient.
There are countless instances a day that I feel that I am just a half—a half of something that I was, but is now beyond my reach. It is close, so tantalisingly, but I am defeated in every moment that I try to achieve it. I have in my bones the knowledge of how to get it, to reach it, but I cannot apply my knowledge. I know the reason clearly, though. It is just that I am incomplete, that I am a leftover of something that was, that happened. I fell apart too soon and I fear that I will never be what I was. I fear that I will never be whole again.
Yet, I'm still alive.
And with all this sadness, weariness and discouragement, I find, in every inhalation, a small respite—a small promise; a small moment of life.
Somehow, that is all I want…just a few immortal moments.
Yours,
I-know-who-you-are-and-you-know-who-I-am
p.s. There's a small, dead butterfly on my windowsill. I can't help admiring how beautiful it looks even in death.
p.p.s. It rained and I didn't close my window. The butterfly was completely wet, but its colours still shined so brightly.
A/N: Constructive criticism is much appreciated. To anyone that has read this chapter and/or have been reading the previous entries: if you have any questions about my writing, or feel that any of my wordings, phrases, etc. doesn't make sense to you, please feel free to ask me. I shall try to clear them up to the best of my abilities. Thank you very much for reading this!