"I croaked through this dryness: 'Don't you have to remain, doctor?' He shook his head: 'What can we do? We have done our best....' He stood looking at the floor for a few moments, heaved a sigh, patted my back once again, and whispered: 'You may expect change in a bout two and a half hours.' He turned and walked off. I stood stock still, listening to his shoe creaks going away, the starting of his car; after the car had gone, a stony silence closed in on the house, punctuated by the stentorian breathing, which appeared to me the creaking of the hinges of a prison gate, opening at the command of a soul going to freedom."

- The English Teacher, R.K.Narayan (Vintage Classics)

It has been one year, and as if on queue, I am alone once again. It is as if the stage is once again lit, the orchestra is at ready, baton held high, and the audience rustling in impatient reverence. But there are no actors on that stage, not anymore. Only voices.
Masses of interpretation, excommunication caused by the voices itself! Your voice, deep and low, as if chanting a curse or prayer (ironic, isn't it?), and mine, high and ear-piercing, always whining, always unsatisfied.
So what now? There is no progression. There are no steps, no movements, the abstracity of our imageless battle is confused by mere immaturity. But you are better than that, and so am I. There is no 'we'. Not anymore. We are the pure illustration of "a tale told by an idiot". Because despite our personal beliefs: 'I'm in the wrong' 'I had no choice' 'I deserve to die' 'You should just move on' 'You should not even give a damn about me', there is no true significance in the passion of our emotions. There is only absence of connection, of 'us'. We are shouting atrocities across the stage. But where do we stand?

Bring those curtains down. Life is not about the audience, their confusion and unsatisfaction, and need for that ever sought after ending. It is about the actors, and when they are ready, to close another chapter of their lives, and take that next step to any other play that may take us. We do not write the stories.

But we have the freedom to walk off.


It is a shame. You're the only one I knew who understood love like I did.