Dear Stranger
With the trend of writing letters slowly fading away in this
urban chaos, I find it almost silly to the point of being childish, to write
something to you. Maybe I could just pick up the phone and say what I feel. But
then again, this is better. It is a little bit more private, as if I am sharing
very intimate bit of myself to you, whispering crazy nothings and silently
praying it reaches your ears.
I am a little Quixote-ic, as it appears; I am at the fault
of being an archaic romantic fool. Then again, why not?
When I was small, I used to sit by the window all day long;
being a timid child I found it more suitable to look at the world from the
confined security of my room. The street was a strange place; the people
stranger. I liked to feel that there was this shadow just like me doing the same,
somewhere out there. As times would have it, I grew bold more curious and
ventured out. In search of stories, a story that I felt everyone has it in them
to tell - men and women all around with their own insights and trinkets about
life. I became a listener. I listened to all that they had to say and share.
Then came the period of mood swings. I used to go back and forth in my memories
and try to find a sense in the story that I am saying. It was like having an
identity crisis. I still have them. Moments of sheer loathing agony or euphoria
depending on the story that is me. The shadows danced by my window as I looked
inwards. Then also I liked to believe that somebody outside this confined space
was having the same story in another world. We are all strangers here, some to
others and some to ourselves. I am writing my story as it comes to me and
probably crossing out two out of every three lines that I have jotted down in
my untidy scribbling.
Stranger. What is your story?
With love,
Another stranger.
