Letter to Her


In your last letter you mocked me and asked me if I found what I set out for. You asked me if all of it was worth it, if being away from you ever brought me any closer to myself. I cannot answer any of it. For instead of answers I have again ended up with more questions. I kept gathering explanations one after the other but they kept slipping like water from my hands, or from the holes in my pockets or the ones in my soul that I spent so long working on. The world here is strange, you taught me to be careful and watch out for what people fall in love with for it will reveal more than any other science ever will. I have found it and trust me when I say this, the answer was yet another question. I have seen them toss around the very sacred word love so often I wonder if they ever knew the power it held before it became as ordinary as the parchment I crumple and throw away each night that always misses the bin and is always lying around waiting to be swept away knowing its existence was yet another experiment that failed, a mere blueprint of something far more grand still to come, something that may never come. The more I have known them, the more they have emptied me and I am surprised how I can still have some soul left to lose. The wretched reservoir never ends I presume, or just would not give up in the face of defeat, of knowing the search is useless and it will bring me death before it brings me hope. Hope. Remember how you used to write songs of it for me? Remember how I used to laugh and tell you to find another subject? That there was so much more to the world? Remember how you challenged me to go out and find such a thing for myself? Something more than hope? Remember how I left and never found my way back? Do you remember all of it? Of course you do. You live and breathe the memory of it don’t you. The memory of a man mindless enough to choose searching over comfort. Before you bask in the glory of my defeat, please know this. I have not given up. I shall not return until there is even an ounce of soul left in me. I shall not return till I find the answer to what the world wants from its self and what I want from it, and why the two never match. I shall not return even if I have to keep walking with blistered feet and cover miles on my own. I shall not return till I find another subject. Till I find what more there is. Until then, I would say I love you but the word is now scarred. Just know that even if the whole world was bent on draining my very being, you are the only reason I will never be empty.

By Zoya Amjad


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