My Dearest Anushka,
I’m writing you to apologize. To explain. To tell you my version of events. I’m writing, although I do not expect you to respond. I do not expect you to forgive me. I’m writing to figure this all out for myself. I think that perhaps the best way to do that is to tell you my story. Perhaps this has arisen because neither of us knew who I was. I’m still not sure.
Where does one begin documenting their life? I wish to try but I can only do as well as my limited memory will serve; my parents are vulnerable, I wish not to remind them of times where they felt stronger, for the fear that the juxtaposition should destroy them. It’s frightening to think that I’ve come of an age where I’m supposed to be responsible. When did that happen?
I remember you once speaking of how you knew our souls were intertwined; it was nonsense, but it was beautiful nonsense, and the more I think of it now, the more I feel that you were right. Perhaps I’ve ruined this life time for us, and it is my punishment to go on throughout this lifetime without you. Perhaps I’ll meet you in the next, if there even is such a thing.
Where does one begin documenting their life? How does one assimilate the vastness of their life into a story?
Vastness: it frightens me. The sheer amount of everything is a thing of such intimidation; I feel much smaller today than when I was in fact, small.
I suppose that is where most start, somewhere in their youth with clever quips and analogies about their childhood and upbringing. I don’t suppose my version will cover such entertainment. I wish to apologise. I wish to explain and share my version of events. There are no excuses, but there are many catalysts, and perhaps they started many lifetimes ago, it’s hard to be sure; my mind, my heart feel old. Perhaps some of these things have resonated through my soullife. I don’t suppose we’ll ever know.
My sweetest Anushka, I don’t imagine I’ll ever hear from you again, I’ve given you no reason to, but this is my story, this is my apology.