Dear S

by 23:57 0 comments
Dear S,

I get dreams, S. Real dreams. I can’t call them nightmares. They’re way too real for that. It’s like they happen to me. I’m afraid, S. Its night time and I don’t want to leave, I don’t want to go sleep. I’m way too scared for that. What if they come back? They come back each night, don’t they? And I can’t resist them. I can’t stop them. It’s like they’re a part of me, now. They’re more real then I will ever be.

You know, S, sometimes I can hear them in the day as well. They call out to me. They call me. But I don’t want to go, S. I don’t want to leave you and go with them. I’m a coward. I’m too, too scared for that. 

I remember that you asked me not to sleep last time. And I did try to follow your advice. I didn't sleep for three whole days, you know? But they did come back. They did come back every night when I tried to stay awake on overwhelming doses of caffeine. Even caffeine doesn't stop them now. I can hear them, S. I can hear them, loud and clear. And I’m very scared to admit it but, but I can feel them as well, S. They’re a part of me, now. I know they are. But I don’t want them to be.
I picked up the knife last night, S. I just sat there, in the balcony, with my coffee in one hand and my knife in the other. And I waited. I waited for them to come. I wanted to scare them this time, you know? I wanted to frighten them away. It was a while before they came, you know? But they did come. And they were unaffected. They were unaffected by my knife or the macramé of my defeated courage. They sat with me, you know. And? And they asked for a cup of coffee. I was scared, S. I didn't know what to do. And I almost screamed. I almost shouted out for help. But that’s the thing. Almost. I couldn't scream. I couldn't call out for help. I couldn't do anything except sit there in my silent misery and gasp for my stolen breath.

My cushions are angry with me, S. I wet them with all my tears, you know? I keep telling them that I’ll stop. That this is the last time. That this won’t happen again. But I become a better liar each time. And I remain a liar, always.

How did this happen, S? How did I become this person? How? I was strong. I was very strong, once upon a time. Then what happened? How did I grow to be who I am today? Where did I lose myself exactly? Was it among the chaos? Was it among the silence? Or, was it among the silence of the chaos?
I still remember those times, S. The ones when I still had some courage. The ones when I wasn't so defeated. The ones when I was still living. When I was a person who wasn't afraid. A person who wasn't afraid of those dreams, of those voices, and of them.

What happened then, S? I still remember being able to call out for help. I still remember being able to describe what I was feeling. It always helped, you know? Talking to people. Telling them. And listening to them tell me that it’ll get better. Listening to them say that it always does get better.

Now it seems that I lost my voice somewhere. I can’t seem to talk about it. I can’t seem to describe how I feel. I feel devoid of words, at times, you know? No one knows, S. No one, except you.
And maybe that’s the reason why you know. Because you understand. I don’t think anyone else does that. They seem to be so consumed in themselves and their own chaos that they forget. And they do forget. Every single time.
I can’t seem to tell anyone, S. I don’t think they’d understand. Like they didn't understand seven years ago when it all first happened. When it all started out. When I first heard them, when I met them for the very first time. When they first came to me.

It all mattered then. To me, at least. But you know what they thought? When I told them about it, they called me a liar. They called me deluded. They called me insane.

And you know the mistake I made? I believed them. I put all my faith and trust in what they said. And I believed them. I did. I believed them when they said that it was all a figment of my imagination. I believed them when they said that it’ll all pass away. And I believed them when they called me insane.
And then, it stopped mattering. It stopped mattering six years ago. It didn't matter if those dreams didn't stop. It didn't matter if I started hearing them in the day as well. It didn't matter that I was so pathetically scared that I couldn't even leave a room alone. It didn't matter if those voices told me to pick up the knife each night. And it definitely didn't matter when those voices whispered and whispered and forced me to dig that knife in layers in the wrist of my right hand.  It never really did. And it doesn't matter even now.

They come back each night. They always do. And if I don’t travel to meet them in my dreams, they come to pay me a visit in my reality. But aren't my dreams, my reality? I think they are now. I think they've become. Because nothing feels more real than those dreams and nothing beats the deafening silence after those voices have whispered. Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

They’re whispering again, S. The knife doesn't feel too far away. I did hide it, S. I really did. But they know exactly where it is. And they’re calling me. The knife’s calling me. I’m scared, S. I really am. I need to go, S. They won’t forgive me if I delay and I’m too tired to fight them. Sometimes I even long to hear them. To hear them whisper.

They’re here, S. They’re here. I need to go. I need to go now.
Goodbye, S. I don’t know if I’ll ever write to you again. I don’t know if they’ll ever let me. I’m scared, S. I’m scared of them.
Goodbye S.


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