Asghar Abbas's Blog

All of my endings. Everything you took from me couldn't make you last long on that starry night. And here, I thought only writers were ghosts. All the hearts that you had ripped from me, keep them. We are no longer the Ants.

19th November 2024
Kelowna, BC. 16th Nov.

Retelling.

To Javeria Abbas,
Rosenheim 2024.

Dear J;

I am writing this letter after talking to you for four straight hours, and that too, after a long, hard month. Coming off from talking to you, I am writing this in this way, so personally, in my horrible, horrible handwriting. Finally, I understand what you meant when you said you wanted a letter from me. See, after knowing you for so long and this intimately, I can still misknow you, hehe. But I get it now. So I am writing it how you wanted me to on 20th August. See, it took me a while. But I am finally writing you the letter you originally wanted, That Letter, this one. You know what? I was thinking about the LOVERS card and what you wrote in April. It is funny. How I am the WRITER, yet what you said there made me feel so much. You moved me then and now every time we have a spat (this last time is the final fight), I think back to that card, what you said in it, that I must keep that feeling alive and never give up or give up on you, give you up? Never and keep fighting.

For Us. So that's what I do when we fight: I keep fighting for us. I want to take this space to ask for your forgiveness, one last time, for hurting you. You have been my safest space, and by that I mean, I have been yours, safest space, and if you allow me to, I'll spend this remaining lifetime making you feel safe within that safe space again. I will make it up to you, I will, I will reforge your trust if you let me. I'll love you properly this time. I am so sorry for all the hurt, I am. You often call me your best friend, but I disagree with this term. What we are, best friends, does not even begin to cover it. What you are to me is my person, my favorite one. You'd often call me yours, that term I agree with. There is a point and a lesson here.

Before you, pre-2016, I had no real friends, so to speak, of course. Without you, I wouldn't even know what it is like to have a good friend in my life. What it meant. Someone who has your back at all times. Before you, I didn't know what friendship truly meant. You have been real and a dear friend. As your friend, I want to tell you this. I am going to be a bestselling author. But I am not doing it without you. You will be by my side, I'll have you by my side. You see, you see me. You make me feel seen. Doesn't matter what year, no matter. I am always happy thinking of you. Whenever I do think of you, and I do, it makes me happy, like there is a person who is there for me, my person, favorite one.

I draw strength from you, of you, from my relationship with you, of our trust, from it. You are like my superpower. Within that purple pulse, you are my power. So, I want to show you this. Oftentimes, I'd find myself in my woods, again and again, to be in them I consider it to be sacred, I am never scared there, but I do adore your BUTT, but standing amidst my trees, whispering my own words is my way of worshipping something. Only way I worship anything now. And saying your Name there in the woods is the closest I'll ever come to prayers again. When I see you again, I'll kiss you between your legs, saying your name. There will be my version of an acoustic prayer. I love you, still. You will always be that person who made me feel a little less afraid of the world.

I love that you showed me how not to live a limited life, not to limit myself, or to let others limit me in any way. And listen, 2019-2023 will always be more beautiful than this. Also, I am writing that other Letter, it's not about my writing, it's all about you, every word, just I have a lot to say about you. How can I not? As long as there is a YOU, there will be a ME.

ASGHAR ABBAS
2024. November. 20th.
My room here
Canada round 2.

P.S. You were right, you know, I never should have let you walk away from my life. I should never have let you go to Germany. Now I must mourn the loss of your presence. Loss of your tangibility is something I'll mourn until there is nothing left to be mourned on this earth.

P.P.S I have always wanted more. I want it all. I want everything. I want more. With you, for a little while, it seemed like I could have had it all; it feels that way, because with you, I did have it, ALL. Without you, what is there to have? And Now? Now I am listing in this lake, in this shipless ocean, I am awaiting to mount a ship to take me home. But will it bring me home?

My home is not a home without you because you were my home, and you are no longer home; no place is home without you. You are not there; without you, there is nothing planetary about this planet anymore. What is the purpose of being on this planet when we are not on similar planes anymore? What's the point of sharing a singular planet when we cannot share each other's lives now, you tell me!

Things are bad right now, everything, not between us, but in general and overall. But I think I have kept my promise to myself, just as you have kept my words, all of them. I loved you, here, in all the places I didn't think of you before. I don't know why that was last year. When you have always been so familiar, you have been my familiar. I recognize you from everywhere. I know you from every timeline, every single one. It's just that we messed this one up; we made a mess of things in this timeline.

This is why I can't let you let me go, why we can't let go of each other. I am walking in my woods now, as I walk in my woods in search of something, I am aware that the Witch I love, want, and need is not there. The witch I am looking for is not in my woods. Where is she? I don't even know. I thought of something else, thinking about that. It has been so long since I have actually loved a mermaid.

When you were with me, I never had to think about the things I like. Your presence was a constant reminder of everything I liked because everything about you is what I liked. I don't know much, but I know this. I'll see you soon, so see you. I'll see you after the jump. Let's just match cut our scenes and match them now, and jump cut to when we are in one place again, when you are here and I am there, and we are finally together again.

When we are in Europe, Kelowna, and more importantly, Karachi. I am in Canada right now, for now, in this Okanagan region, in beautiful British Columbia, but what we had in Pakistan will always be much more beautiful. As I was trying to get it out, I became familiar with our story; it has no end, so I will never finish telling it, for I know our storied Story will never be over.

Broken Time Machine.
Busted up Delorean.
Fractured Timeline.
We are out of time.
Finally and Forever.

I didn't really find one there, in it, very much inside the white surrounding, a porcelain cask, not empty. I really did not. But I have been keeping a mermaid in my tub for a while now. Stranded in there, not without water, with no waters but her own.

For the longest while, when the moon was small and not warbling, there was only one in there, in that particular fantasy, then there was another, then another, and the other, one, two, three, and then there were none. Trio mandili pidmanula. Setting aside my bone-hilted fillet knife, I put it on the edge of the tub. Done. This book, though, was the last book I read last summer, the final summer read.

Before I blinded the mermaids myself. Before all the deluges of inconvenient truths started to make their way toward us, before the ocean came to us and sang to us those watery dirges. Before all the rains that made us feel so empty.

Even then, we weaved through them, drenched and dry at the same time. That being said, this was the last summer book I read last summer. Final summer read. The very last Before. Even those blind mermaids saw it, even the blind mermaids can see that. It is empty, and even though there isn't anyone in the tub right now, I'd like to say this to that particular no one: I do not love you, I want to fuck you even less, I will not write about you now. Anymore. Okay, just one more thing, then we can talk about this book, resume the review, such as it is. You are my favorite mermaid.

I am telling the shadows. Now I'll put the blade away, look at me surrounded by all the knaves I am tucking away the knife.

Why the mermaids indeed. Why this song? Who could know any of this? What does it even matter? Just look at this weather, the climate is changing.

I want to write about the time we were there in the trenches. Do you remember that? Fighting what wasn't coming at us, warding off something that wasn't there. Toiling hard, going farther and farther away from what made us, well, us, exerting even further, then utter exhaustion. But later, there weren't any exhumations; there were no bones left to sift through. So there was no need for ossuaries of any kind.

But for a little while that we were alive and down there, there was only us, mists of blood around our heads, red ribbons twirling in the air, tying us together, binding us, keeping us there, making us remain there, even after we had left. Did I leave you there in the sodden muck in the midst of all the discarded shells, or am I still there? I didn't come to your side; you were always like a bullet on the ground, then you were one. That's where you are now, still hoping for some respite. Yeah, I'm not writing that. It would feel too much like a confession.

Where we are now, even the ghosts refuse to stay in the corner. They are stirring, aswirl.
They were here, but we are not.

Then we are standing in the shanties the army had made into their offices, staring at all the letters soldiers of a forgotten war wrote to their loved ones.

All the letters written on the Wall.

18th February 2025

Kelowna BC, Tims, 5:50 pm

22 Feb 25

(Birthday Note. For actual BD day)

Another February, another birthday month without each other being there on our day. This is the second birthday we are celebrating without one another. How did we go from doing all the birthdays to this, doing them so separately? When did this happen? Yet this is better than last year. At least we are ourselves now. Here. But where is here now? I wish I were there with you right now, or you were here with me right now, or we were home. Where is home, though? Who is home anymore?

I know I have said this before, I have told you this many times, but I'll reiterate it here as well. You are in a beautiful place, I'm in a beautiful place, and those who are indigenous to these places will not be able to relate to what it's like to come from an old country such as ours. However, you have your beauty, I have mine, but what I have with you, especially the version of it in Karachi, will always be so much more beautiful than all of this.

I'll forever cherish the time we spent in a little white boat, adrift, sailing, we sailed and we found ourselves by finding each other. And I promise you this. No more, no more of this separation, no more of this. When we are together again in one place, we will be. If you let me, we'll always celebrate birthdays with one another again. You'll always be my favorite person who made me feel a little less afraid of the world. You will always always be that girl for whom I'd take off my blue winter jacket.

And I want to tell you, I just want you to know this, wherever we are, whoever we are, whoever we are with, February will always be your month alone and only yours, and whenever it's February, no matter where we are, we are seeing each other, and I'll bring the cupcake. Always.

I know all the words; I have every word. Yet I don't have enough words to thank you for everything you have done for me properly. I don't have enough words when it comes to you. But thank you, my forever friend.

-Abbas.

Ps. Happy birthday!

Pss. I love you.

It's nothing. I carry it so well, though. There is nothing but silence; there is nothing much in this silence, but I carry it just so. Well. I carry this act of letting go and patch it with the action of moving on. It's nothing but my silence, I carry it so well, in my silence. I carry nothing except my silence here, and that's not nothing, carry on.

I have not cocooned myself in unmet expectations when I have been wrapping my body fully in a cloth full of full disappointments. Nothing, it's nothing. It's nothing, it's just silence. It's only silence, that's nothing. It's just silence and nothing else. It's nothing but silence.

The silence of others doesn't bother me, even if the otherness of friends does. I'm in my own silence, letting go, I'm comfortably healing in my own silence. Other than that, I am silent in my own silence.

I have been in my head, bearing the full weight of a reanimated corpse of something that's not yet gone, carrying it around like it's still alive. It's misplaced, this thing. I have just been grieving so much and so hard for something that's not just my own to grieve. Something that's not just wholly my own to grieve. This grief. It's my own to grieve, but it's not mine. I have been grieving a thing so intangible, it's scattered throughout but not lost. I have been grieving something not quite lost.

Where are all those copses that I used to nestle all my faces into? It's all broken, all of it, everything, something broke in a way that I cannot fix it now. I cannot put into these words how much it is breaking me to watch this once familiar lighthouse turn into such a stranger. You had raised the bar so high that you yourself have fallen so short to meet it. Your absence fractured my mind in such a way that your presence cannot fix it. You can't take anything more from me. And there's nothing you'll be able to give me now. Not even nothingness, and that's not nothing. Now I'm left with what's left of my lighthouse, dwelling in it, but nothing is swelling within my swollen heart. Now I'm by and by myself, not by callouses or desertion but by the choice of both.

Now that I have the emptied lighthouse to myself again, like it was before and after, I find myself completely in it and empty, by desertion of my own choice. I'm empty here, the sleek waters and bricks. The crumbling stone walls are no longer slicked by voices, silent and otherwise. In this quieted lighthouse, I had to quiet two similar voices, of the two non-humans no longer around, to forget two is less hard than forgetting one. To let go of one is the same as letting go of the other, because they are one and the same and the other.

I had let the right one in twice, and that was so wrong. And I let the wrong one in all the time at the right time, and that was right and alright, I have. It felt so right, I liked it so much.

Alighted from that very thought. Here I am in my own quieted place. I don't feel alone. I am alone.

Now that I'm this empty in this emptied out space, in the lighthouse, what do I do with these echoes that are still stirring? I was there when no one else was. Too much has happened between us and not enough.

I'm left burdened with the knowledge that you are not a deserter but a thief. You know exactly what you have been stealing from me in the summer that was summer to me, smelling quite ripe. The audacity isn't really what you have been taking from me, but in forgetting what you took from me was something you gave me yourself before giving me yourself, before giving up yourself, right before you gave up.

It's a struggle, really, eternal everyday. Just one thing can occupy my mind at a time. My words or you. Once. Once upon a time here. You had replaced my words; what can replace you now, though, who can take your place? You took that with you, thief. A lone hairband on the side of the bathtub, what does it matter now, the tub is not getting filled, mermaid long since drowned.

It's carmine now, summer fleeting, no one is bleeding, no one is stealing anything now, no teeth marks, only these woods. It's so pointless, there is a point. It's not raining now, no one is listening to the rain, we were. I said what I said because that's what needed to be said.

My armored words, where are they now? How can I use them when I'm saying this plainly, I had loved you so completely that it completed me, and it was not enough, it's not enough. In a certain light, after some point, I loved you; I have loved you. At some level, I had loved you for years, and so much, I didn't know what to do with it. I had all this love and nowhere to go.

At this breaking point, despite all the history and histrionics, I know this: I loved you more than you loved me; you simply didn't love me as much as I loved you. Only your false coins convinced me otherwise. In this false light, that much is true. You could fall, it's not your fault you failed to meet me there, your failure to do so is. Maybe the fools are those who die. But the fool that I am, I know I have been foolishly buying your love with my own, only to find out that you love yourself more. What a non-barter. No one is ever gone, and it's never too late. This, you gave me. I have loved you not at all and too much.

It's nothing. You are everywhere now, you were everything, now you are nothing, and that's not nothing.

It wasn't ruinous. It was never that. This thing that was between us. This thing between us. When we faced each other every September. It was there. This film of a reason reducing the small space between us, inch by inch. It was always there. As pleasant as a knife. As heavy as a boulder. As temporary as a goodbye. As sharp as bonds squeezing out the last of blood between this relationship, wringing it out.

What was once between us, this thing that was once there between two of us, none of us, this thing of ours wasn't always so heavy. I'll admit it. It has always been foisted upon me, sure, but I'll admit even further, I let it fester. I stood by the door, opening it further, letting her in.

But this thing of ours, that we both had feasted on before letting it rot, this thing between us wasn't always like this. At the midnight of our mess, this mass is just so heavy.

This misshapen fallible bond of ours, fraught with so much misfortune, we festooned ourselves to it though we were never tied down to anything. It's not this ruinous thing that ruined this June.

Our thing, this ruinous thing between us, this resinous thing, this beautiful thing. That's not what ruined June. No, no. Not the lack of understanding or inconvenience. No, no, it's that very understanding ruined us. We did love one another, that much is true, too much sometimes, but we only loved each other when it was just inconvenient. Then we conveniently forgot that. No, no. It's all this understanding, doing us in. We understand ourselves better underwater. We understand all too well and not at all. It's that understanding that ruined June. What is this dross that's crumbling in my hand, it was once gold, you know. It was. Really. It really was. But now. Now, look what we have done, to each other and to ourselves. We are alone, we are our own buttress.

There is silence, here. There's silence here, too much. Sometimes there is too much silence here. There's silence everywhere. It's all around me. There's silence inside my house. There is silence outside my home. There is just too much silence. Inside my head and outside of my skull as well. There is too much silence in my mind, and I cannot make my mind silent. There is enough silence around me to let it just eat me. I'm going to let this silence eat me, hoping, in hopes that it'll eat my silence as well. In order for this silence to embrace me, I must embrace it as well. I'll let you hug me, devouring the silence. This silence eating me, it will devour the remnants of what I never had. Finishing up the remains of little of what was not left behind. This silence. Let me have it all, I want to keep it. I prefer it, it's all I have left in my heart.

I need my heart to live.

I do not wish for this silence. It's not the silence I want right now. But this silence is not telling me that I am beyond repair, beyond help. It's this silence that’s No One helping me. It's this silence that disgusts me.

Break. Break your own heart. Let it break. Let it hurt. Crack it wide open. Use all your fingers, especially the ones she liked, to pry open this prism as well. Open it up. Heal. Harden your heart, as well as other parts of you. Let it go. Be okay.

In the end, at the end of that ending, you are going to have to let it go.

My heart is breaking, because I'm letting it. My heart is gone.

That crack you are hearing is not that of the heart. That crack is of you going away and my leaving you. Hear that crack. It's the collective heartbreaking.

Why was it breaking you are not even asking. My anger became caustic too quickly, do you even know the cause of it? All we have is all we had and not much else. I'm readily holding onto that while you are hastily corrupting it, corrupting that dream. We are not even sleeping together but sharing that dream. I accept this silence now.

Because this silence is an absence but my own absence is the punishment. But who exactly is it punishing?

You are holding on too tightly. I can't even say my own name, like she would sometimes say her own stupidly, I don't know what it is anymore. My name means differently to different people and not at all to me. And if I have to hold on like this then it's not real. It hurts because that was the only thing that was real.

I am going to need you to do this for yourself. I'm going to do it for myself as well. I'm going to have to do this myself for myself. You are going to have to let it go, everything, let it all go. Let go of everything.

However, I have been refusing reality, resisting it because it's so hard; for I know for a very brief time, for half a lifetime, she wasn't special because she was all I had or I was all I she had. She was special because she was, that. She was just that. Special. But I'm letting that go now. Let it go.

I know that trust. What happened to our trust? Where has it gone off to? What has our trust evaporated into? I knew our molten trust. I know our trust. I know you know that too. That very trust.

I wish you'd see just how unique your mind is, just how rare you are. I want you to know that wherever we are, I have no problem following you anywhere. I'll quickly adjust to your narrative and make room for you. There is truly no one quite like you.

At this rock bottom, which is just not my own, at the end of this line, at the bottom of this, I know this. Ultimately. No one, no one person, not a single solitary person, is worth this much pain, too much. So much pain that it would require a factory resetting to make it all better in that valley. No one is worth altering your heart rate for. Even at that altar, that temple.

But your favorite person. When it's your perfect reflection that's been hurting you, squeezing your heart shut, it hits you different.
You were there through imperfections and you get abandoned so perfectly, it's perfect. Standing right next to this smashed-looking glass, you stand there with imperfections, and on the other side of that smooth surface, the other side is so perfectly oblivious it's perfect.

Something is amiss, really, there was. Until I caught that. We both operate with addled brains, and there is something fundamentally wrong with us, we were right about that. Neither one of us is sane, but when together we were quite normal, and apart, we are insane thinking the other is normal, that's the insanity here.

This? You want me to keep all of this alive? What's the point of this pointlessness? I thought through you I knew you and myself. I know you, I thought you knew that. You are gone now. You went so far away. I'm going even farther away from you, farther and farther away from this broken truth. You are so beautiful. But why keep that alive?

Furthermore, there is no further we can go from here. What are we, you and I, we are what we have always been. What we are now, we are peopleless people living different sorts of lives, we are the ones who are not here now is who we are now.

Outside of us, of our own selves, we are out of time, outside of this, we both saw the wider world out there, together but alone, without each other. Though we live temporary lives outside our own world, the world between us is anything but temporary. Though it was only that just that.

We gave up so much to feel something we weren't feeling but what we have been feeling the feeling we had, we’ll never give that up. We had given up so much of our world to feel newer things, to experience new feelings, both at the same time, we had given up so much to feel more, of us.

What we had between us was more than a feeling, it was a universe that was grateful, a grateful universe, that was gratefully just ours.
See, for the past couple of months, I like thinking about you, you see all the places I saw, and you are seeing, those places are not the ones that are pretty. I just cannot be the one who keeps hurting you. I destroyed my own heart so I wouldn't ruin myself for you. Forget you? I’ll keep on feeling that forever.
I'll keep what we have. If she's going to be a bricklayer of my ascent, then I must let her be. But I'll carry inside what we made of my room always with me. I’ll carry her inside me forever.

Do you hear that? Are you still listening to the song from September? That September is more beautiful than the beautiful one. Just. Can I ask one thing? One last thing before you go; one last time before I go. Why stay for those who left and not for the one who stayed?

One more time before we leave, please, please don't ask me to be real and desposses myself of you. I will do no such thing. I'll never let go and leave.

It's ok. It's ok. All this silence, golden, it's ok. You are Okay. It's going to be ok.

Not necessarily so. Certainly, it's not true. But I have been feeling quite dethroned, a pit of my own making, what of it. Turning slightly sideways, I can't help but look at it. At the whiteness of the white tub. Even though the never not so innocuous things we didn't do in our tub, my tub looks so innocent right now in the haze of absence. Even without any spare mermaids to drown that very tub, very white looks so empty. Sans all those mermaids, my tub looks so lonely, without the music of their screeching, what is there to listen to?

I get it now, what this book The Comet Seekers is about, and my understanding is as loud as your gasp of realization was of something I shouldn't have realized for I have only made a mess of things. Now look at this misshapen mess, how to get down and out of this mesa of peaked things. Look at all this beautiful blood and spilled ink. But I get it now, I understand what Comet Seekers is about.

Even before we had stood facing each other in the mossy dell in the forest amongst my favorite woods. I understood. Even before standing there slowly and gently removing the book jacket together, of the Comet Seekers, I understood. It wasn't about us seeking comets, no of course not, nor it’s about comets seeking us.

There is only a ghost of a reason between us separating us in our world. We are still standing before one another. Standing so close to this Comet, I know I'm only seeking you. I'm seeing you again. I see you. We’ll meet again soon? Looking at this Comet, I know, I'm coming to you. We only want mass extinction of ourselves. We are only interested in mutually reassured destruction.

I am not what you are doing to me. What you have been saying is not enough. If you want me to what? Leave you? Move on? Forget you? Then you are going to have to kill me. Because I'll never stop loving you. I'll never give you up. And I keep reading books that are not about us, not exactly, I keep finding them. And again and again, I keep coming across characters in those books who are not really us but shadows of us that won't stop chasing us until at last we find ourselves and each other again.

I have been writing, I have always been writing, what I have written, I have been writing way long before I ever met you, or knew you or even knew of you, you were you but I didn't know you. Do I know you now? I don't know. But I am writing, I know that. More so in your absence than in your presence, I am writing again. But in the past, I have lost words before, I lost words, I have lost entire worlds, I have lost you many times before, I lost words first, then I found them again albeit very slowly, then I lost both my words and you together. Now I have my words again. The only joy I get from life, my pathway to happiness I'd give them up to have you in my life again. My words or you? What to abandon? The choice is mine. So I would rather not. I rather not. I'll tell you this much though. All my words, everything I have written, wrote, or will write have led me to you. Where are you leading me now though?

It didn't happen suddenly, nor all of a sudden. This wreck of my mind. I have tried to overcome this addiction to that candy. I did. My best. Because you were my best. I know I'm not right. But I'm not wrong here either. Sometimes, I just wish. You liked me the way
I like you now.

All those decades burned away from us, and I couldn't escape the feeling that you have always loved me more than I loved you. But now I know you know I love you more than I have loved anything else. Why? You are still asking. You have made everything else real for me, and all my fantasies ensuing or otherwise ceased to be just my own. The world outside my head was just as beautiful as the inside was. I wouldn't have known this otherwise.
Even now, when I couldn't possibly love you more, even when I love you more than you love me, even so I feel you still love me more than I love you. It's in the action of your words, your perennial kindness, and the sway of your hips.

It's me, I'm the problem I know. I wish I knew how to love another person as well. I wish I knew how to love someone else now.

Listen. I love you. Listen. Do you hear that? I love you. Do you hear that crack? I love you. I know you love me too. I know you do. I love you. I'm telling you all that now in lieu of a farewell. I don't know how to say goodbye to you. It's you. How do I say goodbye to you? Everyone left me and I forgot them. I can't forget you because you never did. Leave me.

I love you so much.

But now we have lost each other over the absolute nothingness of nothing. I'm going to miss you, but you are going to miss me more. I’m still here. But you are gone. Now I'm gone, too. All I'm left with is That Feeling and I'm poorer for it

Yet in the brokenness of someone's heart, I know I'll see you again.

I just need to stop seeing you in my dreams first.

And
And

I'll look for you in fiction from now on. I keep finding you there anyway. And, and I'm there too.

Maybe in fiction, we'll do this right. That's the fantasy.

.....and we should have stayed there in the maze. Who was going to catch us? The ancient thing chasing us had already caught us. It had killed us, remember? Tore us apart whilst tearing us limb from limb, don't you remember? It's hardly something you forget. But you had forgotten so much more than just to stay alive for us. We fought, but in the end, we were snared, so we lost. It was fair.

Under the complicit moon, whimsical and wistful, in its lust to join in the slaughter, to be a part of the supple mayhem, that thing had murdered us. Like it's supposed to in the legends of yesterday's yore. Can you blame it, really. No Sigur Rós songs to accompany that act, bloody conspirators they turned out to be. Their bowed guitar betrayed us, laying out the trap that was set for us alone, in the spillage of that lonely April day that was actually night.

It did kill us, the animal was wild and territorial. It killed us but we were feral too. Together we defeated it. We were together that was its defeat. In our togetherness, you and I, we haunt him now in his dreams. We hunt him there. We should have made that garden our home. Where we could slip each other one another one's nightmares. The lovely nightmares we used to share. No one could shame us for that, at least, not now. But who is the ghost now? Oh the greenness of the dead garden is so beautiful.

But we didn't stay there, did we? That is the sadness of our ending. But our happiness mustn't make us so unhappy now. Look, at the end of that tunnel, both the White Rabbit and Alice are standing there. Why are they staring at us like that?

Sure, ere we were alive. But still, how can we ever get back there, when we were never here to begin with? Do cheer up, all those warrens are still waiting for us. Well, for me at least. You can stay.

No matter what or where our murderer is absent there.

non-billet-doux

2016 April.

Hello. How are you? How are you doing? How's everything at your end? I hope you are well. I am doing pretty good as well, keeping busy, trying to be at least, feigning happiness where I can. While I am happy to hope these days, only awaiting your return. Yesss, I am sulking these days, in a funk, but you know I can’t stop telling you what’s going on in my life. Something you knew so well, one thing you were familiar with once. So, here you go! My exams are finally over. Yah! I am free as a bird! I am writing to you at the earliest as soon as I could, I swear. I have tried my best like you had advised me to. I really did. I have a good feeling about the outcome this time. I am fixing to get really good grades, I promise. We should always keep our word even if we can’t keep ourselves, no? I am giving Kainat a hand nowadays helping her with the chores like you wanted me to because she is the eldest, shocking, I know, hehe. There I concede her superiority, happy? And okay fine, I am helping out Dad too. Though to be fair, I feel like he is taking advantage of my generous mood. Ha-ha. You will be very happy to see me doing all this when you come back. You are coming back? Aren’t you? I am doing all that I can, so you can come back to me. I am missing you, Mom, so much, so so much. I know I was never, um, I haven't really been very expressive toward you. I never showed how much I loved you. So I thought to let you know even though I am so wroth with you, still I love you the most. Yes, Mom! You are everything to me but I know I can never be good enough to be like you. This is what I’ve wanted to tell you so many times but didn’t. All my life I never had to pray, you were always there I never needed to, and because of you I never looked for a temple. That's why I always turn to you. Mom, can you tell how much pain I am in right now? Even now? Can you still fix it? Make it better. Somehow. Only you can assuage me that I haven’t lost my place in your world. Only you can heal this hollowness inside me. Only you can help me make sense of why I am still here. Just try to finish your work, and come back as soon as you can, please. Here, look at this. I want to share something I recently read; A year has passed since we looked at each other, hasn’t it? A year has passed or a thousand suns have died. Where are you hiding? Why can’t I hide with you? Why you abandoned me like a painting waiting to be perfect?

[This here, there were traces of pentimento effect right there. But she shrugged it off. She had read that passage and liked it well enough. So she wrote it down here right now]

Has it really been a year, I don't know. Reading it reminded me of that. You do know by now, why I am so mad at you? You were never like this before, not ever, were not, ever. You know what I am talking about. Don’t you? Don't you. This is my 23rd letter to you. You haven't replied to any of them. I wrote to you but you didn't reply to even a single one! How can you do that to me? Mom? I wait every weekend for your letter but I guess you have forgotten the way to our home, or perhaps have forgotten me. Respond this time, please, please respond to me. I know the-

And then she had to stop. She had to stop writing, so she stopped writing. It didn't even last a song, this attempt to reach out to her mother. Then she stopped writing altogether, putting her pen aside, pushing the nearly blank pages away from her. Her hands were shaking so badly by then, she had no choice. She couldn't keep them from trembling. She balled up both her fists, shoving them between her knees to get them to stop shaking. The pain wouldn’t let up, she couldn't ease into her song that was making her really sad. She hadn't been able to. She was still hurting, it still hurt so much to think. Though she had exhausted her ink on paper just now. However. She was neither out of ink nor words but her tears wouldn’t let her continue. She couldn’t even see clearly by then. The tears were what they were, it was the deluge that was too much. This stillborn song. This song in her heart was tearing her apart. All she saw on paper was an inkblot mess. She tried so very hard to remain here, to dwell within this music, sharp staves stabbing her brutally but to no avail. It was useless, all this love for others, she was tired, it was so useless to feel this much for the otherness of others. It was hurting this much to feel. What does it matter? It didn’t matter, by that point it was all moot. Her stupid hand wouldn’t stop shaking. So she stopped.

What could she even write by then? She didn't even have stolen words to go along with. Put them to paper. So. Finally. She folded her unwritten letter, gently putting it in an envelope. She sealed it with her kiss. Hello, Ammi, she thought suddenly, wildly, wholly, whorls of words fluttering out of her. Where are you? She was telling now, not showing but she didn't care. Ammi, where are you? She thought, thinking maybe her thoughts might be able to find her mother, unbidden and free. Looking around she thought, look, Mom, look at me now; traveling back in time. I am time traveling through time without time out of time this time. I wonder, she thought to herself, how you are really doing? How are you really? She couldn’t really ask who are you really, without being derivative, so she didn’t. But where she could ask, so she did, she asked her mother where she was. Thinking maybe her paperless thought would reach her mother where her letter couldn't. She didn't want to sigh but did anyway. Fisting and not fisting her hands weren't helping either. So she clenched and unclenched her fists. And then forgetting her hands altogether she stood up walking away from her desk.

She left her frayed desk behind in the dingy hallway, frail feet moving on upwards almost of their own accord. False sunlight following her up the stairs, weakly trailing behind her, echoing her footfalls. Sunlight, yes, sure, but drenched in sunlight something else followed her upstairs as well. She went past her black cats eating their lunch, faces in the cracked bowls, black boiled eggs spilling over the rims. Her cats were stuffing their faces with the spoiled dinner. The black cats and their human stared at one another for a second but for naught. Wasted vittles, she shook her head sadly but not really sad. Shaking her head, she moved on. But not before turning back toward them again; for in another lifetime she had owned them. When she was looking at her cats, she saw it. She found the cats, black in nature, to be staring at her. So, she hissed at them, bouncing on her feet a little, jumping a little bit. The cats didn't hiss back. So she actually moved on in actuality.

Up, up, up she went. She went upstairs. Breathlessly winding up the spiral staircase, up the crumbling staircase, paint chipping off. Remnants of old wealth and vestiges of extreme poverty struggling to share a single space. Delicious viands, she nodded licking her lips. Not long before, soon enough she was standing before a closed wooden door. Old and worn out. Faded blue color vanishing, though it wasn't the color blue that was being extinguished.

Luckily, the said door was closed but not barred. And soon enough, too soon, she found herself in the upstairs dining room that had seen happier days. She found him sitting by himself at the table. She found him easily enough in the darkened room all alone. He was nursing a coffee he didn't compose. The only thing missing was the stripped tree. She looked around the dining area, where was everyone sans one? She didn't care. She approached the darkness within the darkness that was swelling within the dim room. She gently tapped his shoulder. He detached himself from his own darkness long enough to turn toward her, giving her his full attention, all of it. When he turned to her, she was startled for a moment, taken aback, for a spilt second, she didn't recognize the person sitting before her. Then she handed her brother the envelope she was clutching ever so tightly to her chest. Thus giving it to him, the letter humming quietly within, sealed along with her only kiss.

Her brother hesitated for a moment, before taking the envelope from her. But then he took it.

Mishal handed her handwritten letter to her older brother, knowing he would post it like he always does. Who in her better days she viewed as her constant companion. But in actuality was mostly her pale shadow, just as she was his passenger but darker. She looked at him, struggling to say something. Grappling with her slicked thoughts, she wanted to implore him. But she couldn't get the words out. She didn’t know what to say. Actually, that’s not true, she did know, she didn’t know how to say it. She was looking at him. Rameez, she thought. She wanted to say something. Can you do me this favor? Again? Post this letter to Mom, for me. She wanted her mother to get it as soon as she could. Please, she thought she might have spoken this aloud but she was so quiet inside her head, she was probably just thinking that. She needed their mother to get this letter so badly, so very much. She wanted to tell him that. She needed to. She wanted to say something, something else too. But she didn't. She didn't say anything at all. She didn't tell him a single thing. She left everything unsaid and kept all the things to herself. When she looked at him, he was looking away from her. And when he was looking at her, her head was turned away from him. He would look at her and she would look at him, but their glances never met. But then. She was looking at him. More than that. More than her. He was looking at her too. She was on the verge of saying something, to speak up, she half cleared her young throat, one forefinger even raised. He was still looking at her. When she looked at him again. She didn't say anything. She forgot to speak up, she forgot to speak, she didn’t speak at all. Instead, she handed him her letter, hand-written but fragile, handing it over to him with a smile that made her pretty.

Her last song was at an end, it was almost finished.

Without singing it

- For she had swallowed enough sunlight, she thought, reflecting on the smooth surface of this benighted mirror, because I have swallowed enough sunlight, I think, She thought to herself, off to see my desolate garden, bare, barren, and blighted. It was time for her to do a little bit of plein painting in plein out in the open since she was out in the open now. She smiled her leaf-curled smile. Where’re my mullioned windows at? For she had to get out of there. She was shivering and the floor was so cold. She had to leave, she was barefoot in reality. It was funny though she wasn't laughing. For when it's an absurd comedy then it's a tragedy, when an absurd comedy becomes a tragedy. Or is it tragically comical when it's this absurd? When a tragedy is basically a comedy? Or is it so absurdly comical to be this tragic? Because once you get to know a thing, it's hard to go back to it. There's no going back. When things change things are changed, and they do change things. And she now knew that love of all kinds is never unconditional. It needn't ought to be. How do you get back to that? So she didn't. It's not the fault of the monsters when you try to love them. It is after all time to move on when all the ghosts around you are stagnant. Bowls were cracked and empty, words missing. Lord, she was starving but not for their whispers. Surely, it wasn't her fault if a monster fell in love with her at midnight, for sure. Winter was a starveling little thing now, such a funny little boy, she knew this for she was fully tragic but she wasn't a full tragedy just yet. Though she wasn't trapped here this was starting to feel a lot like a painting -

In so many ways what started out so beautifully was so evil now. So she was leaving, she decided. She whirled around then, walking out of the dining area, and going outside. Heading downstairs, she probably went out to the backyard or what passed as a backyard these days. He couldn't tell from where he was sitting. He didn't care enough to get up to check. But he watched her leave, he did do that, watch her leave that is. Even as he was looking at her walking away, he was becoming uncomfortable, increasingly so. He waited a moment after she was gone. Then flipping over the envelope, he turned it around in his hands.

He held it aloft, holding it in front of his face, thumbing the flap that was coming a little bit unsealed. It was opening up, peeling around the corners, that’s not enough it never is, too much spit. He held it at an angle, looking at it, trying to actually see. Then he just gave up. He sniffed his sister's latest letter quickly. Reeling back, he reeled back even quicker. The letter reeked of her stale breath. He leaned back, sighing. It wasn't long before he got up as well. It wasn't too long before he had to get up anyway, so he did. Now that she was gone, he got up to fetch the damn thing. He got the old shoebox from an alcove hidden somewhere in the room, just outside of this story. He settled back down again at the table, gently removing the lid, pulling out the contents. Contents not contains. He was staring at what was in his hands, what he was actually holding. All the loving memories choked him as he put those aside to pick up the envelope she had just given him, flipping it over once more. Someone other than his imagination was playing a trick on his mind. A trick of memory. He was lonely. But his mind was not the only one trick pony in town. He shook his head, feeling immensely sad, but not really being able to shake off that sadness.

All the things left unsaid, to each other, things that cannot be spoken of, to one another. Everything between everything. And all the things in between that everybody was all too eager and happy to ignore. All the things that cannot be unsaid. It wasn't there. All the black mass amassing within these walls.

Nostalgia almost suffocated him. For what was no longer there was still there. Almost. But something other than nostalgia was most definitely choking him. Something tangible. Something outside of himself. He felt its hoary presence, a physical force standing behind his chair, choking him, and he let it. Come on, you haar, throttle me, he thought. But then like most things in his life, its interest in him fizzled out, all its strength petering out, and all the space that it was occupying leaked out of the frame, seeping into him. Thus becoming just another entity that was abandoning him too. That abandoned him. As well, just as well. Oh, how disappointing, he thought to himself, more amused than bitter. And just like that, the presence that was almost purple, foreign and alien, that was trying to haunt him was gone. Just like that. But it wasn't replaced by anything else that would haunt him in turn. In its place was something that never left him that would never stop haunting him. It was all spurred by tragedy in real time, sure, but it had an added burden of being real. So, it will never stop hurting him and he will never stop fighting it. But the presence itself was no longer there. Texture of it was like the heavy space all the missed opportunities occupy, that hollowness you feel when you finally stop feeling for the love that’s unrequited. And much like that even the space surrounding that was gone. He supposed he was a bit annoyed because for a little while he had forgotten that the malice was real. It wasn't a long hard goodbye but he did mourn his loss. He mourned the loss of an absence for a bit, and without paying the loss of that absence with a presence, he moved on. But he did move on, moved on he did.

He didn't put forth anything. But moving forward, he went on, went forth. And he picked up what he had pulled out of the old shoebox, pulling out the remaining twenty-two letters his sister had given him. All the other previous twenty-two letters he was supposed to post, the ones he had supposedly already posted. All those letters composed over the course of a year. He has been looking at all the unsealed envelopes. Now he looked at the one written in March, opening it as well. But just like the others, he didn't read that one either. He didn't need to. All those letters written in a year, what a crumpled year it was. Then he added the latest one to the pile, bringing the total to twenty-three. Twenty-three letters. All these opened, unsealed envelopes, flaps tore open hanging out like papery hangnails. He resisted the urge to shuffle them, why tempt something that wasn't there? He adjusted the envelopes, straightening them, and smoothing out the edges. Running his fingers over them, he ran his hand over the envelopes, ruffling the stillness of the envelopes, he ruffled the papers.

He had gathered all the envelopes into a stack and he tapped that stack on the dusty dining table just once, before putting them back in the shoebox.

His work done for another night, and he was suddenly very tired of it all. Leaning back, he couldn't help but wonder about his sister, dwell on that thought, so he wondered. He leaned back, wondering about his sister, thinking whether she'll ever make it. If she'll ever make it out of this misshapen mesa that is their life now after the aftermath of before days. What killed him was knowing her failure was killing him, he was aware that wasn't what was supposed to kill him. He had a lot to give but none to take and there lies the main issue. The Failure of Her was too huge to get past and he couldn’t look past it. The failure of her focus on an altar of their passing was dangerous, not only that, it was enormous, a calamity. He was already dwelling on so many of her little shortcomings way too much. She wasn’t fulfilled enough to be fully bright, so she had to renege on that. What a waste, it was such a waste to watch her waste away like this. She was so full of promise back then. She was once a promising young woman. What happened? What was left of all that, she was just a young woman now, which was all that remained of that notion; she was the only thing left of that sorry equation. She was all that was left of her entire potential. It's such a shame, she had squandered her gift for posterity and for what? What had happened, to her? He wasn't in a foundry right now but he found himself not being able to let this go. He had already done so, but he was still mulling over it. He was still trying to understand the failure of her imagination, utter and abject. He was trying to grapple with that. He tried grasping her harvested status of a non-starter, he really did. But he was still trying to come to terms with her loss. She has lost herself. That she had lost was undeniable. What she had lost wasn't lost on her. He understood what was wrong; it's always the other people who are currently living your dream, who enjoy your dreams while you are the one who's asleep. And he didn't know what to do with that. How do you deal with a loss like that? She has lost everything inside her that was her. He didn't know how to reconcile with that. He was no longer sure how to love her anymore. He wanted to sympathize with her but found that he didn't. He had been thinking about what she was wearing today, he remember looking at her dress, glancing at the threadbare hem of her kurta, and thinking what does she do all day? He knew in reality everyone has the right to look through the past and chew on the good parts only but most rarely do that, if ever. But how do you unknow someone? Knowing a person is so brutal. He also knew if you kill something that's already dead then it's not murder. That's not what was so saddening here. He knew in his hearts of heart that she wouldn't be coming full circle. Hers was not a cyclical story. Because it has been so hard watching her creativity sap away like that. It's so maddening! Though he had been enjoying the early days of the sprig of spring that is this season, he couldn't help remembering, he couldn't help but remember, he kind of enjoyed that too, It's just that when all you have is memories, brittle and full, it becomes a burden, it's so burdensome, such a heavy load, especially when you are the only one carrying that. Ah, to be suddenly without the ability to make memories, what a pleasure, such joy, what a wonderful thing that would be. Still, parts of him grew up, and some parts of him flew away. Still, he remained himself. Still, he couldn't help but wish all of his best for his sister, hoping she'll get through whatever is it that she is going through. One way or another. He hoped. To be able to find Alice in April. In the garden. What a goodbye that would have been, a fitting farewell. And remember, a writer's farewell is never a goodbye. If only he was a writer. She must have slept by now. She's probably sleeping in her bed. Dreaming. But who is it that's waking her up from her dream right now? He wondered just who was it that really woke her up.

He glanced at his mug, wishing it still had coffee. His hand almost reaching out, he snatched it back, seeing that the mug was empty. He had drunk it all. An empty cup was saddening, it was making him sad. What had happened? His cup was full, once upon a time, full to the brim, now it was brimming with nothing else. Alas, though he had gathered all the envelopes, he had utterly failed to gather the rest of the storms. What happened to the stars, they are all dried out now, where once not so long ago they were wet, so very wet. Did they die out waiting for Anne Boleyn to be executed? Sooner or later, we must all climb down the stone towers ourselves. He wanted to toss something on the table. But there was nothing to fling down. His hands were bare. Out of tune, the music was almost over.
He sprung suddenly, leaning forward on the table forcefully, chuckling hard. Apropos. He proceeded to spare her one last thought, a final word, amused with her small world and her little life. He was shaking his head with bleak merriment, mired with mirthless laughter that was sputtering out of him, You’ve swallowed enough sunlight. Put down the dirty Mason jar, you little waif. That's not honey in it. Stale, stolid, spoiled, it doesn't have any liquid in it. Put it down. It's not the water that's stagnant. "Go on," Rameez thought, "Go on you little time traveler. Go be useless in music, go be less." For when the song ends, life goes on. And when that life ends, the song remains. But he shouldn't have bothered, he needn't waste his breath. His sister had already become the perfect apposite of what was not there anymore. She was a goner. "We are still occurring between the stars." He muttered.

And without permeable, he got up from the dining table, grabbing the shoebox. Tucking it under his arm, he walked out. The natural light was almost gone when he realized something. It occurred to him that he was almost native here. And then he too naturally disappeared.

Unwritten by FDK. April 2016.
Retold March 2023.

iZombie had no right to be as good as it was. The series had no right being as fantastic it really was. Now I am wondering about the comic books.