A letter I sent to a friend a while ago.

Dear you,

Oh, how dear you’ve become to me. I wouldn’t have thought it in a million years. But here you are: dear, close, and having to read about all my self-created misfortune.

I think my self-pity arises mostly from the nature of the predicaments I usually find myself lodged into. Instead of crying over real tragedy, I invest all my emotions in something quite inconsequential and natural; something I will certainly get over very soon, maybe even accept and adopt.

I do not know. I never have. I am terrified. I do seem strong, I know. And I am sometimes what I pretend to be. I’m mostly what I pretend to be: independent of thought, peculiar in taste, resilient and well-guarded. Today, I fail to pretend. Today, I am weakness, seeping through and through. And I want comfort but I don’t know how. I don’t need it, don’t worry. My palm will pat my back and my tight smile will return.

I guess I am in a race against myself, to make something out of myself, no matter how small, yet significant, before you, all of you, discover me for the fraud I am. Spineless, scared, of no conviction and no merit.

I press my palms tightly to my face. I chant “the shame! the shame of it!” over and over again. It all heals, doesn’t it?