Letter #1

Dear M,

There are certain times in life when everything seems like a failed attempt. And the attempts are simultaneous. Neatly arranged upon one pile after the other until you run out of space and nothing fits anywhere anymore. Not that I have run out of space but I can feel the shelves crumbling underneath the burden. They are about to break and I don't think I have enough resources to put them back together. 

Truth is, in the last 26 years of my life, I have accumulated a lot of senseless, useless moments that could have been easily avoided. Such as chasing after men who do not share similar interest in reading like I do. Getting too comfortable in one corner and not minding the stunted growth of my mind. Nurturing my pride to such an extent that I am unable to empathise with most people. Probably if all that hadn't happened, I would have been a different person. 

This is not the first time I am thinking about all of this. 

I think about these things every single day, especially ever since I have met you. You with your beautiful mind and your dutiful heart. You were the only person in my entire life who made me sit down and think twice about the choices I have made. Yes, there are things that were never in my hand. My brother's addiction, my father's co-addiction, my mother's dependency...I couldn't change those. Although I wish those weren't left for me to deal with. I had to quit my masters. I had to move out and get a job. But now, I don't know what I am doing. 

Few days back, while speaking to a friend I was forced to face a fact I didn't want to. My friend told me, "You know, I had expected that you would do big things." And now, I don't know what those big things are. I don't have the time to read or the money to buy new books or friends who can help me by lending a book because they don't read. Nobody around me actually reads. 

With the little time that I have, I try to focus on writing. And that too is very scattered. I have to constantly change my routine because I have to prioritise office work. When I come home I have to take care of my food, my clothes, my bed and everything else. I have to worry about survival. And still, I try to pen down at least 2000 words each day - although that be more or less depending on how my head works. 

I am jealous of you. That you grew up in a home where you never had to worry about survival. You had the time and the resources to read. And read you did. You devoured it. And then you read a little more. I know you belong to a different world and although we live under the same sky, our worlds will never collide. I don't suit you. I am not the kind of girl who would fit into your family. I am, in your world, an illiterate. 

But in spite of all that, I do love you and there is no one quite like you. 

I will perhaps never be a celebrated dancer, a renowned author or anyone of any significance. But I know you will be. You will write books, create theories, teach young minds, define an entire generation. And I do consider myself quite lucky, that I a simple small town girl who is only trying to survive had the privilege of falling in love with you. 

Hence, a blog containing a series of letters all dedicated to you. I know I will never be fortunate enough to sit and talk to you, discuss matters with you, or share my thoughts. I know you have a lot of important things to do and smarter people to talk to. But the heart wants what it wants. And mine wants to strike a conversation with you. The only meaningful, priceless conversation I will ever have. I don't know if you will or anyone will ever read these letters but maybe someday, just out of the blue, you will know me. The actual me. And I hope you will not dislike me.