Alix Stradon
I must have read your letter a hundred times now.
I know it by heart, especially the part where you speak of all your dread. But
I waited until today to write back. You must wonder why. I’ll tell you soon. I
hold the least of interest to empathize or to find a legion in those hordes of
yours. Be not relieved, I have not re-found the respect or love that I once renounced
to rot in an unidentified corner of an unfamiliar city. In fact I wish to
contest, no! defy your last thought, confront your departing words, and if
possible race you in your run for death.
In our last conversation, I remember, you looked exhausted,
vulnerable and powerless, like a soul overborne with loss. I vaguely remember
all that you said, because honestly, I could hardly get past the fright in the
sound of your voice to pick on the words. It burned like an eternal splinter in
my heart, your drift to the other world.
I had questions I could have asked and danced off
my victory over your silence. But it would have done no good. To refuse life is
indeed a decision of as strong a disposition as it would be to return to life
afterwards. Sooner or later, you’d have had it your way. You had let go of me,
your gravity, as you wrote. You were floating in an empty white space where the
clock didn’t tick, where it didn’t rain. In such a space you were lifted. There,
only death could be your companion.
You said to me once, “If a day spent with you
could bring me to life, I wonder if a lifetime of companionship would make me
immortal.” So what was it that made you fear life more than death itself? Why
did you choose to believe in a future so
full of anguish, so inspired by your dark past that you were blind to the
celestial bright of your dreams? What would go wrong with the world if everyone
understood the minimal of their responsibilities? Nothing! More importantly,
what gave you the right to act like you were the only one left alone,
abandoned, closer to the worst than anyone else?
Perhaps if you knew the answers to these
questions, you’d not have left here in the first place. But this is not the
time for questions, not anymore. But I do wish to tell you something. It is
this – where good can’t stride, evil stands up with pride.
I don’t, and believe that I never will understand
how men could leave this world, if at all by their own hands, in the moments of
undeniable despair. How would their souls contain any life ever again knowing
that the last ended in such disgrace? How could anyone find a purpose, a
longing satisfaction when their last memory is so filled with terror? What is
it that makes us not live for the things that we claim, are worth dying for, by
forsaking life itself?
I’d rather die in the happiest moment of my life,
embrace and contain that ecstatic memory for an eternal bliss. You may argue
though, that this thought is itself rooted in fear of a tomorrow worse than
today. But I know fear too well, as well as I know pride. While the former has
scrounged my very life form, I have practically survived on the latter.
One thing I know very less of is love, although I
have experienced emotions of unnameable nature, far superior to it. And by
virtue of something similar, I feel happier than I have ever been.
I’ve heard that knowing how ignorant you are is
the first step on the path to wisdom. I believe knowing how ignorant others
are, must be the last. I guess this will just be another of the luxuries I’ll
have over you as far as life is concerned – you left it in an outspoken gloom
and I will in a secret elation.
