1/25/15–4th Letter Opened


People don’t always get my birthday right. I’m doubting if my sisters and brother even remember it.

My birthday is in between my father’s and my younger sister’s. But why does it matter? I don’t even like birthdays. I don’t know why people even like birthdays. I don’t know why people celebrate getting old when most of them dread the phenomenon.

I know you hate birthdays too. We both think it’s pointless and meaningless. And we both love the rain and appreciate its droplets rather well than other people.

But you hate growing old; thinking about it makes you cry, you told me once. Well, you cry at almost everything. Why can’t you keep your emotions intact? Seriously, you cry too much. Anyway as I was saying, you don’t like growing old… but I do.

I love the thought of aging and experiencing it. Because I’d love to see how my life would go. I don’t want to be stuck in this stage; I want to proceed, to continue. I embrace grey hairs and wrinkles and sagging skins. I do not condemn broken hips, forgetful mind, and blurry eyes or slow movements.

And I do not mind dying. That is where we differ, you and me.

You are too afraid of life. And that’s wise. Be more afraid of living than dying.

Oh and I loved your present. You know I love books and hand-written letters more than anything in this world.

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