Dear, Victory. Hi? I guess.

I'm always thinking that writing letters should be brought back to our society because there's romanticism in there that we cannot attain on the chat room which they say "end-to-end encrypted", my arse, right? We did this a while, didn't we? Writing letters because back then I felt that the chat room was ineffective depicting my frustration over not understanding you who were really having a bad day which I didn't know about. We resolved our differences and misunderstanding on those letters, cute and romantic, I'd say.

This letter is a little bit different, though. It's the same method of arranging words beautifully with the utmost respect in every alphabets in it, but this one is without romanticism and I'm sure not cute. This, my dear, is a letter of resignation.

In your infinite wisdom, optimism, and kindness you have, you had suggested me a thing to go on about my life. And in my bitterness, pessimism, and drunkenness of mine, I honoured every bit of it, because that's the least I could do to repent of my sins to you.

And here's how it's gone;

I've tried, my darling, as you'd suggested. I've tried opening up, calling lovey-dovey names for each other, making conflicts to resolve it with love and lust, to be an adult, to be in peace with the realization that we might hurt each other in the name of loving and wanting each other. But sometimes, the fear is creeping in, it's coming as a sleepless night, or a random playback of memory at my day work then graces me with shameless migraine of shame in the process. And that fear became exhaustion.

It's true that ignorance is bliss, but I was not born or made that way. Even though I have the stupidity of non-conscious animal for the decision making the present has to offer, in a contradicting fashion, I also have the widest and wildest perspective of my past. I drink regret, I'm drunk on something I don't have the power to change. Other than words I arranged and let loose in the world of binary codes to make them immortal, I also engraved my heart with all the mistakes I've made to make my own eternal hell. Thus, I'm cursed.

The exhaustion convinced me that being alone will not be as exhausting as being with someone. I can let myself be, just be. Because if I started to love properly, you and I know, darling, that I will not become myself entirely. I'm a chameleon of the most abstract yet perfect wishes of one wanted to be with. I am the perfect man because I let myself change for them accordingly. And maybe that's the exhaustion after all. Maybe I'm exhausted of not being me this whole time.

So, I hope this letter finds you well (of course, this so-called letter wasn't sent straight to you, I hope you still find a taste to check Baris Aksara in your graceful spare time). I've honoured and done the suggestion you'd given me, but with sincerest apology, I cannot go on any longer than I'd wanted it to be. I wish you well, and please wish me well, too. Please, wish me be, just be.

In eternal platform of luck I've destroyed.

Pasha Fatahillah.