Category Archives: Lost Love Letters

A Note on the Kitchen Counter


I’m done, done, done! I seriously cannot do this anymore. My sanity is at the verge of combustion, bursting into burning orbs. Fragments of an existence that was once whole, once unified and once formed me, shall scatter into a void of some vast universe.

I’m gonna be gone, gone, gone… then what will you do? Nothing much can be done after that, honey. You’ll stay the same. Shed a tear or two, eh? Maybe. Please do so, after all you cared for me once upon a dream, right? Maybe an escaped gasp and bewilderment shall overcome you Maybe more than that but then what will you do? Will you look up at the stars and reach out for them in a failed attempt to grasp what is left of me? Trust me, my love. I am trying, trying, trying. So hard to fit into this mirage of unified humans submitting to conformity. But I find it terribly difficult to collect what is remaining of my energy to inhale/exhale for a purpose dictated by an imbecile majority. Gosh, these people make me puke. Ew, people. Ew, ew, ew! Humans think so highly of themselves that they consider every action of theirs justified.

Baby, I’m holding back, back, back. It’s like I’m falling into a black hole that’ll take me back in time. Retarded time and reversed tread. I have to control myself. I am not allowed to say what I think and do what I want. So here I am on this remote island gazing at this wondrous world where these humans are acting like animals and animals are being trained to act like humans. It’s a circus. Everyone’s putting up a show and strip teasing. Lust keeps oozing from the dribbling mouths of these hyenas. It’s like the uncontrollable wildness you see in the eyes of a madman, unsettling and perturbed. I am fighting, fighting, fighting. This is a war against my own self. Even if I win, I lose. I am struggling to adjust this veil that conceals my thoughts that I have from the thoughts I should have. Shush, shush! No one should know what I think of. Those silly thoughts shall lead to my execution! I let them control my life but hell no they won’t control my death.

But fuck it! I’m done, done, done. No one can save me. No one! No one!


Fourteen Point Two



It is late, the lights are dim, the music’s slow and you’re on my mind. I shan’t be particularly speculative regarding this inclination to rejoice and bask in the glory of amorous gestures. ‘Tis a pity that the truth belies. Qualifying feelings to a finite set of demonstrative and verbal actions is to desecrate those feelings.

Although, the wondrous thing is that you can celebrate what you feel regardless spatio-temporal restrictions. Thus, let us not be a subject to bleak realism and for the sake of it, I shall join the parade of fools who have been struck like thunder by an arrow of a fictitious little Greek fellow known as the cupid and indulge in the guilty pleasure of a wordsmiths’ obsession with their beloved.

Verily, here and now, this particular part of me breathes your existence like a smoke-ridden intoxication. You need to know this, you truly do, that with all your human flaws and imperfections, to me you could not be more perfect. You are unique, one in seven billion, with all your abilities so divine and thoughts so refined. You are beautiful, beyond the determined stereotypical statuses set by this judgmental and detrimental world. Your soul is the ocean and your mind is the sky; fearfully fascinating; a fantastic fantasy.

My love, never forget that in this moment, here and now there is a headstrong, ambitious, pollyannish, unromantic, obstinate and compulsive, halfwit young lady who shall cherish your presence in her life and shall always be thankful for what you share with her.

Life makes us take that bitter sip of poison and gulp down the fact that time, people and feelings are all subjected to change. To be or not to be, that is the question. At some point, we may no longer be who we are today, but today we are us and tomorrow can change that tomorrow, not today.

I shall raise my glass to make a toast to this, now and us.

With eternal love,





Here I am, soaking my quill in an ink pot and scribbling over this piece of parchment, once again. I am a slave of my words. Somehow, they seem to be utterly devoted to you, as is my soul. But whenever I write, I tend to find myself amidst this chaos that seems to engulf me like the flames of a burning house. I possess the perturbed soul of a fool struck by the arrow of that sonofabitch cupid.

I have tried to save myself the pain, I truly have. I have tried to break free from my anarchist heart. But what can I do when this very heart happens to be the center, the reason of my life? Although it is my heart but it seems to obey anyone but me! Oh that little red-fleshed rebel! How many times have I told it not to indulge in such atrocities? But being the obstinate, stuck-up fucker that this ruddy heart is, the infatuation is inevitable.

Oh my dearest, I am falling into this black hole of infinity that claims your existence. As we stood by each other’s side, drenched in rain and as the clouds rumbled on, I was blown away. Not by the furious gusts of wind, but by you. How your graceful elegance, amidst the tempest, inculcated serenity in me. In the split moment of a skipped heartbeat, I felt a frozen nothing and a dynamic everything, at all once…

Verily, my dearest… I am falling into this infinite infinity and I wish not to be saved. I desire to drown myself in the depths of your soul. I crave the deepest, darkest as well as fascinatingly brilliant miracles of your mind. I devour the passions and emotions that beat with each heartbeat of yours. So it shall be, as it is meant to be and I assure you, it is nothing less that awe-invoking magnificence.

With eternal love,

Imprisoned By Choice



I apologize in advance to indulge in yet another irksome trifle. It does not mean I am sorry, no. I shall still perturb you with yet another letter. What else am I to do? Where else am I to go? Just because you’re in a state of denial does not at all mean that you’re not my refuge anymore. So, even if you shall en-flame this piece of paper with my pen’s blood scraped and scratched all over it’s surface, the ashes of my words, ablaze, shall still set your Goddamn soul on fire.

Do you remember the dream we dreamt together? I can still close my eyes and find myself gazing at numerous unpainted paintings and untouched tapestries. My heart still dances to those violin strings’ mellifluous tunes and your footsteps. So much said, so much heard from that point onward. We were fearless weren’t we, love? Letting out all the lepers dwelling in the dingy corners of our collective conscience.

Then remember what happened? The clock struck twelve and reality struck you long before it crept behind my ear and whispered those curses. The dream should have went on but dreams don’t work that way. They are a discontinued series of incomplete events with loose ends and loop holes.

I am not afraid of these shackles that cling on to my heart as they waltz around my choking throat. The suffocation reminds me of how vital it was to breathe, to live, to survive. And in that moment I realized, how finite and limited I am. I am the unfortunate bastard who sings songs of freedom while peeping from the dungeon cell you’ve trapped me in. We are free to make our choices but the slaves of the consequences. And I chose you. I still choose you.


Deja Vu



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.