Dear Self,
I’ve never liked you
To be honest, I don’t like the person you are, either. I don’t like the person we are.
Preachy. Damn preachy. Opiniated. Do we need to have an opinion on everything? You even had opinion on yourself, and that too, ahead of everyone else.
I’m nerdy – but not enough to be cool among the nerds. We are mundane. Our music taste belongs to the 20th century.
You annoyingly stutter when you are nervous or sad, and speaks irritatingly fast with a screechy voice when you are angry.
You are obsessive and I am creepy – your insecurities are paralysing, and my investigative skill is humiliating– you let my imaginations runs wild. Untamed.
Delusional. You live in this alternate reality for most of the time.
You alienated yourself before anyone could – and wonder why nobody had ever wanted to come close enough. Maybe they did, right? Maybe you were the one inching away.
Rigid. All-or-nothing. All you know is that you need to be perfect. When you slacked in one thing, you let everything else slip – you are always the first to give up on yourself.
Artificial certainty. I was sure that we are well-equipped when in fact, all I have been doing (and perhaps the one thing we are good at) is just preparing – you are consumed in thoughts, but live much lesser.
Yes, I have been right for all the times we have been cautious – and mostly wrong when I have allowed you to let your guards down. But, perhaps it is a self-fulfilling prophecy?
Could be, right?
I didn’t like you. I didn’t like us. Partners-in-crime yes, for we are vandals. Yet for all these time, I’ve stringed a tragic tale to justify our irks. To make you more bearable. So that the wheels keep rolling.
Now, I’m no longer sure. Has the tale been causal?
I might have been gaslighted. Or maybe it’s true that you love to be a victim. Or perhaps your tank is running low.
Still – Does the why matters more than the what? Because if it is – I wonder if my memories are reliable?
See – The thing is, I’m no longer sure if I know enough about the person you are, Sabrina.
You are a bundle of mystery, that even I couldn’t untangle. I guess because I have been rash, impatient. You are originally messy – and I’ve only been jumbling you up. I would unravel you one thread at a time. I promise.
Your walls are scratched, excoriated – or perhaps scraped? You are almost constantly bleeding and perhaps it is your own sensitivity that put your at the tip
– how we wish you have a thicker skin. Yet, we could not build up the layers if I keep tearing you apart. I, out of all – should not do that. I would be gentle. I promise.
Let the world rushes through to decide on our likability, let’s leave them to it. I no longer want to run alongside them – I no longer want this poisonous victory.
I don’t want to like you. I don’t want to dislike you. I just want to love you. Regardless. I want to support you. Regardless.
We cannot be good at everything, but then again, should we?
Let’s leave behind the expectations, and live – one day at a time. One trait that you want. Do that. Work on it.
Kind? Yes, let’s be kind. Me to you. So that you can be upon others.
