08.06.13 14:25

She sticks her fingers to her ears and tries to take her mind off the sounds coming from the kitchen. The fork hits the glass and she fights the urge to stick her fingers further. Her inners feel like they’ll explode any time soon. She pushes her hair to the direction of the door wishing it would block the sound a little bit. Just a little bit. It is disgusting, the way he eats. So loud that during the time she has lived with him she started to hate the whole concept of eating. She steals a glance at him and sees him wiping the bowl clean with his fingers. She might throw up soon. The sounds just won’t stop. She takes her fingers out and tries to block her ears with her hands, pushing as hard as she possibly can. And grinds her teeth. maybe that sound will keep her mind away. She hears a sound of water. He must have turned it on to wash the dishes. She sighs in relief. The sound of sponge rubbing against the glass is comforting.

10.05.13 16:00

He is right saying they are fictional, she admits. It is true that she holds on to ‘imaginary’ people rather than ‘real’ ones. But that’s because she¬†doesn’t¬†believe real people exist, because we tend to reshape people in our minds the minute we meet them. Because there is not one person in this world who is not a fragment of our imagination. Only physical appearance exist and the rest is fictional.

01.03.13 00:32

Mourning the dead is a square and mourning the missing is a circle. Both trapped in a sole moment, both keep walking, both always return the beginning. Yet the one mourns dead regains his consciousness in every corner whereas the other flots in bitter emptiness. The one mourns dead opens his eyes once in a while listens to people tell him forget and retakes the turn whereas none one dares talk to the other.

16.02.13, first letter

To Mr. ____

I apologise for disturbing you with an anonymous letter, at such a sad period of your life. I was deeply sorry to hear about your late wife, she was indeed a very lovely woman and I could not believe my eyes when I read her sudden death on the paper this morning.
You, dear sir, might wonder the reason why I have chosen to wait until night, hours after recieving the news, to offer you my condelesences. If that is the case, I ask for your mercy once again; because my main purpose is not to talk about her.
To be honest Mr. ____, there is a question that has been nagging me for four hours, twenty minutes and thirty six seconds and it has now occurred to me that it may be answered by asking a rather aged person for advise. So, I have thought of you. (I do not mean to be impolite yet I think honesty is a must to reach you.) As you are nearly seventy six and are slowly dying.

Mr. ____ have you ever been happy? Have you ever had a real happy day? Or a period of time filled with pure happiness? Not the kind one feels for a passing moment under effect of a sudden, extreme rush of joy such as love, but real happiness caused by your own mere existence?
I need to know.
Because I can not recall a such sensation. Not during my childhood, nor during high school nor in the first year of college.
I can not recall one day, that I have been happy with myself, by my own.
So I need to know, if I go on living, if i just live, will I ever achieve it? Have you?
I need to know.
Since your answer might be the only thing that can make me drop the knife in my right hand. ( and yes, I am left handed if you are wondering.)

Sincerely yours,

A/N: I am aware of the grammatical mistakes and am quite not satisfied with the writing itself but this is something I wrote when I was maybe at the lowest of my life. So I chose not to change anything and publish it as it is.