Unsent Epistle

Keep writing poetry, keep sharing poetry. All the time I can’t ask you- “How are you? What is going on?”.While you write a poem, remember that every word you pen down is the dust of your soul. It is a very intimate thing that you share and it spreads in the air like bunches of pollen and I can feel your presence when some of them fall on my shoulder.

Keep writing poetry, keep sharing poetry. All the time I can’t ping you- “Hi”.I love the way you change from Pablo Neruda’s “Today I can write the saddest lines” to a happy poem through the lines of Khalil Gibran’s ‘Defeat’.

Nowadays, while I walk in a park in the evening, I can see a Royal Red Maple tree whose shadow is silhouetted by its own red, fallen, dry leaves. I know it is an incomprehensible metaphor… But don’t you think that tree is you and the leaves are your poem?

I don’t know where do you live or what do you do, but I hope you are not as restless as me. I am not satisfied with what I am. There is always an invariant intimidation that is forcing me to change myself to be liked and to be fitted in my surroundings. There is a void out there I can see and I feel that it is only me who will have to feel that. But every time I realize that I am either too large or too small for that void.

There has been always a force and that is why I don’t have any definition of myself. My likes and dislikes changed while I was in negotiation with society. Yes, I exist somewhere but without any definitive specifications.

I earn a lot, you know? Last month I bought the exact car that my dad sold when he needed money for my education. I quenched that void of the car with the exact red car we used to have… But what about me? The baffling crisis of my existence inside a void in a befitting manner is still unsolved.

I have become something that is known as ‘being successful’. but it is not what I wanted to be. Something is lacking somewhere and that is why I am envious at the guy who works with me in the same cubicle and carries a lunchbox with him. His face carries a smile of ultimate accomplishment. He seems to have no problem, he seems to be like a docked ship, he seems to have a definition of himself in this topsy-turvy world inside his lunchbox.

Chuck it. It is none of your problems… Most probably you also carry some kind of lunchbox and identical kind of smile on your face. I was always better than you in every field, still, It is you who have a definition, your poetry defines you. Your poetry will fill up all those voids which were left to be filled up by you.

At night, while I try to sleep, I felt cold and no shroud of any thickness warmed me up. I wish I had a shawl riddled by my poem just like you.

You are lucky that you have poetry inside you…Now you can fill any void with this.

Regards

Old Friend of yours