Letters to Frank ~ 2

Dear Frank,

I'm scared. No, nothing related to my insecurities. I'm scared of the inevitable.

You know that horrid feeling when you become aware of your beloved one's mortality. The unresting feeling that is going to happen .. It is going to happen.  It is just a matter of time. And that you will be left to yourself, facing the burden of having to move on. Yes, you will have to go through the sorrow alone no matter how many people would stand there by your side. People could pretend to share feelings but they will never feel for you. It is just not physically nor emotionally possible.

I'm scared. I'm scared my parents are beginning to sense their own mortality. I'm scared that they're witnessing their memories die .. and it is a matter of time. I'm not scared I would be physically left alone, I know I can physically move on. Move away. But I don't trust my emotions. I don't trust my psychological immune system, for it has failed me every time. I'm scared I'm giving the thought of their decadence more than their living.. that when it happens, it is going to feel that they have died long before.

I'm scared. I'm scared I don't believe enough. I'm very fickle when it becomes to belief. It's not that I find it hard to believe. It's that I don't trust that I believe. Not enough. 

I don't know, Frank. They say that one succumbs to this reality by time. It has only broken me before. I've accepted the fact that I'm not the person who enjoys living life. But I'm scared that the end is going to be even worse.

Until the inevitable arrival, I continue to repress.

Letters to Frank -- 1

Dear Frank,

You know that feeling when you want to excel at anything. You need to stand-out. Be the best. Feed your ego with success to soar back to life. I want to be that bastard.

The Heavy Silence of Loss

'Condolences for Our Loss.' The signal I've been waiting for between the fragments of solemn reality and sacred sleep.  The incisive sign of forgoing, and the beginning of the painful stage of realization.

I am not really sure if I'm writing to keep your memory alive, or to put it to a rest like I pray for your soul. May be both. Do I owe it to you or myself? May be both. The stream of tears holding on to your memory comes down my face while the shock of your passing shakes my being. Why is it always too late?

This is the thing about growing up; you’re always late to realize that you cannot take life for granted. And it hurts every single time but you never learn. I try to swallow the heavy silence of your loss. But it stings my heart. The pain of loss demands to be felt. My eyes and heart succumb. My whole existence surrenders. Was a final farewell too much to ask for? Who knows, maybe this was better for you. For me. For both of us. Too late. I shouldn't be sinking in the whirl of what-ifs now.. it’s too late.. too selfish. I condolence myself with silent prayers for you.

Pure. Your smile, so pure. Your chuckle, so captivating and sincere your eyes close. How strong you were, facing the world with your slim figure with that lipstick you wore. Never perfect but resilient.  Did I ever tell you that I find your grooming defiantly beautiful? Alone. You died alone. There's a harsh taste to the verb die. Pass away is just the soft version of the throbbing impact of the word death. Demise. Decadence. Grave burden of loss.

The weight of realizing your loss silences my words. My being. Literally.

اللهم أغفر لها وأرحمها وأدخلها جنات النعيم ..

اللهم آنسها في وحدتها وآنسها في وحشتها واجعل قبرها روضة من رياض الجنة و املأ قبرها بالرضا والنور والفسحة والسرور.

اللهم الهمنا الصبر وتوفنا وانت راض عنا يا أرحم الراحمين.

آمين.

I wonder ..

Shhhhh, Frank!

I know. I know. Just don't go off the deep end, okay? Remember, Frank. No expectations. No speculations. 

Concentrate on the uncluttered. Endorse my smile.  I need you to arise, Frank. No one else can heal my wounds.

Sheesh, Frank!

What has got into me! No, no, really? I've always been messed up and everything but this is some other level of being messed up that I haven't experienced before! 

Egypt? The new career path? The divorce? The surprise? The yearning? The tiredness?  Am I growing up? I'm mentally and emotionally clueless and exhausted, Frank!

We need to set things clear, Frank. I can't stand this vagueness any more. Though I have to admit, Frank, it kinda feels good. Somehow. Frank.

Reminisce

Procrastination is an art; I'm the Donatello of procrastination. Two weeks and here I am with a presentation, assignment, studying and class preparation all due tomorrow. Oh, and here I am blogging again after two months to spice up the challenge. If I didn't know myself too well, I would have blamed the circumstances for the never-ending-messed-up mood swings and the agonizing mental and emotional suffering. Anyhow, who am I to complain?

Rifling through the old papers with the intention of plagiarizing anything in the way, I found it. The paper in your handwriting that I have always avoided in fear of consuming one of the very few remains of my good memories. Here it is in my hands again; addressed to me; To Ingy. Only God knows how much I hate it when people misspell my name, but you’re the exception. I put the paper back again; I don’t want to deplete the memories of it. All what you've taught me is carved deep in my being. My existence to you is null, but this is how I want it to be; for I will be owing each and every success in my life to your existence. I owe you a debt of a thousand light years of gratitude for all what you've done to me.

Time to stop reminiscing. I don’t deserve that pleasure of your memory.