A letter.
For my friend, the Vulture -
I keep saying, to my friends, war is futile. All this is futile. We talked about it, and about how the world should be a better place. How we could make it a better place. And how we could really change it. It scares me to think that I refer to these things in past tense. It scared me for a long time. Somehow, I never believed as much as you did. You were right, I didn't care enough. Maybe I don't even now. How do I know? You were the measure of it. And now, I measured you, and you were gone. By force, by choice, by who cares why.
I read a book. About a boy, and how he betrayed his friend. I asked a friend if the worst thing to happen to anyone is getting raped, because so many books centre around it, there must be some truth in it. No?
No. It's betrayal. I know that, you know that, and my friend who I asked said the same. Only, I forgot. We live somewhere we can't put names to our feelings, and make them larger than our needs. If we do that, we sound like megalomaniacs. Like people who dare to put feelings, moods, and pain above everything else. Like people who say words like betrayal. We don't want to sound like people who say words like betrayal, do we? No, no we don't.
Even when I read the book, for a moment, I thought it was about rape. It wasn't, was it? It was about what you expected from the rest of the world. It was about what you got the rest of the world to do. You got us to betray you. I'm not blaming you. Or atleast, I'm not holding you entirely and solely responsible. I know it takes two. But I hope you'll accept too. As I have.
And that book, it did to me what you tried to all this while before you decided I would go away too. Or I had gone away too. But never mind about that - that's old hat now. The book made me cry. And want to scream for justice. After so long, I wanted to hurt someone, for destroying every single thing that wasn't mine. But those things weren't fictional naa. Those things - those bicycles, those toys, those hopes, those books, those serving bowls, those matresses, those things, they belonged to someone. Someone who once must have lived. Someone who once must have had to leave them, or then just die. Friends. Friends who should have been together. Pride that shouldn't have been stripped, because what are we, eventually, but our pride and our honour? People who shouldn't have had to cross an ocean and work millions of miles below their deucation, because they didn't know the language, and then too, they had to die without a last glimpse of their homes.
Today, I saw more dead on TV. Yesterday too. Tomorrow also, there will be some. And why? Don't look them in the eye please. Whenever you go, don't look them in the eye. I'll do it for you instead. Maybe that will be my redemption. Or maybe it will be what you need to do what you should.
Too bad I'm never going to send this to you. Too bad we've chosen different things. Too bad. Too bad indeed.
I keep saying, to my friends, war is futile. All this is futile. We talked about it, and about how the world should be a better place. How we could make it a better place. And how we could really change it. It scares me to think that I refer to these things in past tense. It scared me for a long time. Somehow, I never believed as much as you did. You were right, I didn't care enough. Maybe I don't even now. How do I know? You were the measure of it. And now, I measured you, and you were gone. By force, by choice, by who cares why.
I read a book. About a boy, and how he betrayed his friend. I asked a friend if the worst thing to happen to anyone is getting raped, because so many books centre around it, there must be some truth in it. No?
No. It's betrayal. I know that, you know that, and my friend who I asked said the same. Only, I forgot. We live somewhere we can't put names to our feelings, and make them larger than our needs. If we do that, we sound like megalomaniacs. Like people who dare to put feelings, moods, and pain above everything else. Like people who say words like betrayal. We don't want to sound like people who say words like betrayal, do we? No, no we don't.
Even when I read the book, for a moment, I thought it was about rape. It wasn't, was it? It was about what you expected from the rest of the world. It was about what you got the rest of the world to do. You got us to betray you. I'm not blaming you. Or atleast, I'm not holding you entirely and solely responsible. I know it takes two. But I hope you'll accept too. As I have.
And that book, it did to me what you tried to all this while before you decided I would go away too. Or I had gone away too. But never mind about that - that's old hat now. The book made me cry. And want to scream for justice. After so long, I wanted to hurt someone, for destroying every single thing that wasn't mine. But those things weren't fictional naa. Those things - those bicycles, those toys, those hopes, those books, those serving bowls, those matresses, those things, they belonged to someone. Someone who once must have lived. Someone who once must have had to leave them, or then just die. Friends. Friends who should have been together. Pride that shouldn't have been stripped, because what are we, eventually, but our pride and our honour? People who shouldn't have had to cross an ocean and work millions of miles below their deucation, because they didn't know the language, and then too, they had to die without a last glimpse of their homes.
Today, I saw more dead on TV. Yesterday too. Tomorrow also, there will be some. And why? Don't look them in the eye please. Whenever you go, don't look them in the eye. I'll do it for you instead. Maybe that will be my redemption. Or maybe it will be what you need to do what you should.
Too bad I'm never going to send this to you. Too bad we've chosen different things. Too bad. Too bad indeed.
posted by bluegreenflysplat at 11:17 am
6 Comments:
Betrayal is brutal. Even more so because it usually comes from someone you trust. You are right.
I've always wondered how people go to sleep every night, after they have betrayed someone, or wronged someone. How do they make peace with themselves for taking someone away?
Typo above...
*taking something away?
oh so THATS why you were asking the other day >:(
shame i dint give you any smart answers. (next time warn me in advance)
Cas, I don't think its that difficult. There are always ways to shut the doors on these things.
Veed, I didn't really care about the context. You were right too naa. I mean torture?? ;)
Aristera, I suppose you are right. But then again, thats a different take on it, and that's just a different line to take...
This is probably not the right post to put this on but ...
I must break your heart, your avatar is not drawn by Pratt but by Milo Manara (it's the cover to El Gaucho *written* by Pratt and illustrated by Manara.)
I'm here till the 26th.
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