The book is now on goodreads. Alone. As for ‘ibhog’, right after the book’s intro, the story is there.
I know how it feels when you write a letter that you don’t send. Or have a letter in mind to someone that never gets written. I for one have many of those. I considered actually reaching out to those people with the intention of letting them know how much their acquaintance means to me, but I always retreat. I believe what many call closure is nothing like what they truly, and unknowingly need. A closure would be most effective a long while after the relationship pertained ends.
I remember once writing a long letter to my step mother in the draft section of this blog. It was after I’d read a book about relationships that explained how writing letters helps with healing one’s negative feelings; pages and pages of trying to suffocate a very intricate emotional process into scientific terms; into a theoretical order that assumes royal power over people’s different circumstances, only to fail in practice. I was young and naive. I wrote the letter, not because I wanted to, but because I thought that would be one way to heal. Of course, I felt colossally stupid after it.
I don’t know why we always get tricked by movies and books that way. What’s so charming about those things that makes us forget reality’s beauty? I keep thinking about a scene in a movie I once watched. A burly protagonist had just entered the hotel room, looking for a woman who’d just fled a fighting scene he was part of. After the fracas ended, he was all in sweat and shock. He had to actually kill someone in defense. He enters the room, looks around and not find her. The voice of running water is emanating from the shower. He goes there and finds a frightened version of the woman, still in her dress, sitting right under the water. She’s soaked wet and not moving.
And now comes the part that I believe every man fantasized about doing. He went inside and sat besides her under the shower. Slowly and romantically, he took her hands and started to, and I’m not making that up, suck on her fingers! The direction of the scene impressed on the audience the false fact that somehow that relieved her stress, and made her lean on his now soaked wet shoulder.
Now, N, I know I digressed unduly, but bear with me. Try and imagine that done in real life, and you’d know how absolutely ridiculous it is, to the extent that expels charm right out of the entire set of details. First of all, sitting under the shower with your clothes on is most uncomfortable, and very boring. Second of all, it’s hideous. Cloth pasted to your body like that, I mean, yuck. And, to top all of that, and not that soaked wet boredom is enough, but now someone gets to share it with me and call it silent empathy. They get wet too, of course, and then after everything, they suck my hands. Ew. Whenever I imagine two happy people doing anything like that under water, I can’t help but see them laughing at how silly it is. It’s too sappy, you know.
Now back to what I was saying. Letters. Yes. I want to send letters to many people. Many people whom I hurt, misunderstood or in the slightest of ways misjudged. I wish I could make it easier for them, and me. But what can you do with such undone a past? There are also others whom I don’t really have a past with, but with whom I know I couldn’t start any future. I never possessed enough audacity to go hunt in the forest of their feelings, but I’ve always felt they were hurting, just because I chose to silence myself.
Another thing. What’s with letters and them being infinitely more beautiful unwritten? Why do they turn into everything that’s plain and melodramatic the moment they see the light? You see, some things are so graciously delicate, even words break their meanings.
Enough introspection on my side has taken place, I guess.
Do tell me how you like the book.