Dear Alice,
It’s
not very often that I find myself in this place where words verbalized are
disastrous for the lack of any deliberation over their form. When I do, I
prefer the medium of pen and paper to carefully craft the words that I lack the
ability to remember when the moment to say them arrives. And therefore, I am
writing you this letter in the hope that when we do talk, neither of us is
smitten by the power of a breaking heart or the guilt of breaking one.
I
frequently find myself hoping that we could start all over again. Introspection
in all its honesty has the ability to mature one’s conception of himself. “We succumb
to the alien because of our pre-existing sense of alienation. It isn’t what we
feel that’s the problem. Perhaps, it’s what we deny ourselves that is.” These
words ring in my memory in the sound of your muted analgesic deliberations. Did
I ever tell you that when my heart is sinking for some unfathomable reason, I
find myself desperately searching my memory for the sound of your quiet hummings,
the tranquillity of your breath, the stillness of your demeanour, and the
strength of your compassion? How did you find your existence beyond your being?
Is it possible? Or did I rob you of your willingness to try? I find that I want
to talk to you about everything once more because introspection in all its
honesty is a revelation of our denials, our escapism, of our truth and how we
perceive it in our distorted notions of morality.
Say
I were to meet you again, what would I say? Introspection in all its honesty
plunders us of justifications for good intentions, leaving in its wake the
realization of our loss and the impossibility of retrieving it with all we have
left to offer-an apology. Would it suffice to slip back into the rhythm of your
breath and the tranquillity of your sighs, the intoxication of your voice and
the maze of your mind?
All my love,
The Mad-Hatter
