Saturday 5 January 2019

To Tom (5)

Dear Tom,
I know I ended my last letter on a very distressing note, and I am sorry. It's kind of absurd that I put you through this with no adequate explanations, and I quite honestly don't know how (or why) you put up with me, but let me tell you, if there's one thing that keeps me from going utterly and irreversibly mad, it'd be the thought of you reading my words.
I've been struggling with myself a lot lately, and I am so worn out I made peace with things I shouldn't make peace with. One of them is the reason why I am writing you this. I am half a person, Tom. It makes me sick. I am always there, but not quite. I am half a friend, half a lover, just half everything. Even writing makes me sick these days because the only faint connection I have with being a writer is these letters and they've become battered and worn and purposeless and I am sick of it and all my attempts at being something more. I've made my peace. I am here to tell you I've made my peace with not being whole. I have nothing to claim, and no person to call my own and in a sense it's serene. I am not here to grief because I've decided that this won't be how I end things between us. Yes, end. I've decided that I will no longer send letters, and I will no longer call you my own, because you, Tom, cannot settle for half a person. I can hear you cursing me under your breath now, I can hear all kinds of things, but you understand me better than most, and you know that this is what I have to do. You cannot settle for someone who's not here nor there, I won't let you. So this is where we part ways, dearest Tom, I will be leaving you here, with all the light I have to give, and I will only ask of you to think of me with the same light I think of you. I know you won't rest, but you also know I won't budge, so for the sake of both of us, do not send me any letters, I will not open them. This is a road I have to walk on my own, so all I ask of you is just to think of me with grace.

Yours always,

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