I’ve listed down all my writings, and I will cross them all out tonight, so tomorrow, I could ask you to have coffee with me.
You, my favorite person of all.
You said your life is like a fig tree, with branches sprouting everywhere. One leads to the prestige of the academe, the other to the beauty of poetry. There was also a branch with a husband and children, and one for a recognition you never got when you were still breathing.
You were there, you said, at the foot of that tree when all the leaves fell and wrinkled and turned black.
You will understand me, I trust. Mine is almost similar to yours. But it isn’t a fig tree, no. It is, you see, a diverging and irreconcilable route.
And I am here in the crossroad, unable to move and, like you, unable to choose.
One of the paths leads to security. A way back to academe. A standard existence in a normal society — husband, children, career, recognition. This is what I am expected to choose. It’s an asphalt road with flashy cars zooming past, here and everywhere.
The other trail is wild and ravenous and untamed. The lane is wet and muddy and filled with adventures and long shadows — golden sands and rough waves, stories about pirates and gypsies, sound of cisterns and scent of sandalwood, caves and a crown of purple thistle.
You are right, what you wrote there. Choosing one would mean losing all the others.
Like you, I cannot let that happen.
Maybe in a parallel universe, this tragedy never transpired. Still, I want you to know that I understand why, in February 1963, you chose to kill yourself.
And if by some mischief of a chance we find each other in another time period and plane of existence, please have coffee with me. We will talk about our days. We will sort this mess out.
We will ease the pain. We will make life worth living and bearable. And no matter how impossible and bleak it may seem, we will find hope.
And we will guarantee that this time,
we will never stop hoping.