Cause, Pen

A Letter to Myself

The upper side of the china mug was little chipped off. A little crack, but significant enough to make you anxious and little bit sad. You’ll rotate it slowly, trying not to spill the coffee inside, and with keen eyes, following the faint lines of the imperfection.

Choose.

Choose.

Folded corners of your diary can be fixed easily but the lines won’t go. Though you can tear the page off, but you know that the harm is already done. In a remote corner of your memory, there is a deliberately abandoned grave of these memories. Sometimes you pass by this place accidentally and bring some grief and misery back with you.

‘I am done bleeding. I can start all over. A new day, a new man.’

Sweet lies, I call them. I often take them in the morning with some coffee. But at night, they don’t work that good. You can share it with people and sharing helps. Unless they don’t want to listen, usually which is the case. Everyone is wounded and they all want to show it. Everybody bleeds in their own little domain.

“There is not one person in this world that is not cripplingly sad about something. You remember that before you open your mouth.” (unknown)

Like a tree, with names engraved on its bark, I wish to stand still and be stoic. Hundreds of birds have built their nests on it. In the fall, I never saw it crying about its abandonment. Never it yelled at kids for breaking its branches or throwing rocks at it for fruits.

In this letter to myself, I wish to propose an idea which I must hold near, forever. If I will keep ranting, yelling, crying and blaming, I will be like an ever-empty bowl with a hole underneath. So, rather keep it all inside and be content. This world has already got enough misery to share some more.

You can spend a lot of time, scanning the crack in the cup and will end up with a cold cup of coffee. Or you can just sip it up while it’s still hot and start a great morning.

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