I find myself writing yet another letter to you. Admist this chaos that furls up in me, I am helpless. I am utterly, pathetically, unrealistically helpess. Trust me, I am the last of human beings who would’ve wanted this. But I am a deploring victim, I admit this. If I had the chance, I know I would run away. More than myself, I would save you the trouble. This is trouble.
I find myself writing yet another letter to you. For this, forgive me. I wish not any inconvenience yet I am deeply perturbed that I cannot fathom the extent of what has penetrated to the depth of my soul. My heart reeks of this inevitable and spontaneously alluring drug that drags me right back to where I started. Where I started, you wonder? I started from me. Where have I ended up? You.
Thus, I find myself writing yet another letter to you. I am drowning in these words hence I shall drown you too. Why should I suffer alone? How could I have saved myself?
But now I find myself writing yet another letter to you. You have opened a rusty chamber of my existence. This may be quite intimidating. I say this, for this not only erupts a volcano of panic in your mind (Oh the mind is such an anarchist) but more of a tsunami in my mind. I indulge in fear so fondly. My dear, I am afraid. Even more so, as you cannot save me. “You cannot save the damsel if she is in love with her distress”, eh? This sweet dream shall fade away with the gradual relapse to sanity, then what shall I do? Where shall I seek refuge. For now, you are my refuge.
Oh gosh, I find myself writing yet another letter to you. I am catching at a straw, holding on to the wisp of smoke that once permeated through your lips, slithered through your throat and seeped into your lungs. I have lived in the illusion of strength. But my walls crumble down and the roof tumbles on me when I peek into my empty heart. I rattle myself against the silence in my ears and the hollowness in my eyes. Where do I go? What do I do?
Therefore, I find myself writing yet another letter to you. I have my hands up. I am unable to comprehend the extent of damage that has been done. I wish not to hover over the ashes of the grand garden that is now nothing but a cemetery. I am sorry, love. But I am who I have become, by choice and by fate. Not that I am remorseful, no. But I am torn apart even before the tragedy has unfolded. I am scattered anew, before I could figure out how to put the pieces back together. I am in shambles. I am a debris, a mess, a dumpster. Oh you vicious old menace, you! Nonetheless, I am in your debt for bleeding on to more pages of the epic tragedy I call Life. You are a beautifully horrific hamartia. You, my dearest, are my fatal flaw. Thank you, for happening to me.