Bookay Writing Competition- Second Place
Jaan e tammana,
Sometimes I'm baffled by this degree of misfortune that seems to have befallen you ... us!
No matter how hard I try, your only means of pleasure remains anything your moral compass points as wrong. As prohibited. As dark. How can one draw pleasure from what brings one pain?
In all our years together, you do not, can not, seem to take delight in any pleasure you find is 'right'. The oft occurring specimens of varied illicit affairs, the 'gajray' in the car, the lipstick marks at your neck, the used condom packets in your work jacket, all fall pale in comparison to the black simmering rage you wear in the absence of anything dark. In the dark, you wear guilt. A guilt that seems to feed you. A guilt that seems to please you.
I look at the moving beads of the tasbeeh you keep reciting after every conscious slip you make, I see your tears, and I also witness your happiness.
This morbidity has drained me to my core!
Do you realise how frightening this monster of unending darkness is? It eats on my heart.
Years ago, when I used to look at your msn ID, I would convince myself that the gloom you seemed to radiate had more to do with the unexpressed youthful rage. It is now that I've understood what is it that you identify yourself with. Guilt. You seek purgatory.
I have failed. I've failed in making you see what unburdened joy is, what a delight beauty is!
It is only now that I'm beginning to grasp what have you meant by, 'I hate everything innocent!'
This understanding alone has robbed me of any will to keep trying. How can I win against what my love loves?
Last night, noticing with others how you sneaked away with her, I realised, under the pitiful look of guests, how hopeless a situation we're in (and what a mega failure I've been)! It's not about her. I take and trust your word: 'Don't bother about her, she's just a bitch!'
It's about how you are, and shall always be, found around whom you'll keep calling Bitches.
Guilt, pleasure. The loop goes on.
Trust me, there's no worse failure than this!
Hah ... The realisation that the person for whom you saved the best of you, finds pleasure only when it's ridden with a dire sense of guilt ... :) It is irony redefined!
This life I share with you is, at best, an almost life. I am tired of being almost alive.
I only wish it wasn't you who would've brought me this failure, love!
You had been my god.
There were only 7 Valium tablets. I took them all. I wish I don't survive. If I do, well, you know the count.
I am sorry.
- Found as a suicide note, 2009.
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