picture was taken from google


            A friend of mine once told me, Papa, that a girl like me will not live long. I asked him what he was trying to say when he referred to a girl like me. I shut, it was not necessary, although I did not agree I thought I could accept his view. Anyway, I think that’s how we usually see people right, as what reflected on our eyes?

            It was raining last night. The rain did not only create some puddles on the ground which was part of the market but also made the roof wet. Water drops from the corner of the roof, creates a melody. The vendors look busy, serving the costumers. Meanwhile the ones that do not have costumer arrange their stuffs and sometimes yell, offering the stuffs. A man sits, in front of him are chicken meats. His sun-burned hands hold a paper. Among the crowd he stays still in silence.

            Lately, I have a nightmare, Papa. A nightmare that I believe is the result of my fucked up-mind. It’s not the demon who comes after me, I am the one who invite him. If there’s any of course. I’m currently reading, Papa, a novel. It tells about a girl who receives a letter from unknown man, there is no name or address. There’s just a simple line, a question, “Who are you?” Do you know, Papa, that’s exactly what I’ve been asking to myself lately. It starts with who am I, why I was born, why I was born as your child, until when I stay here and many more. I don’t know the answers, Papa, I’m still wondering.

            The man is fifty something years old. Most of his hairs are white and his skin, although shows his big muscles, cannot hide its wrinkles. His eyes hollow, with black circle around them somehow tell that he doesn’t sleep well enough or morning comes too early, may be. Still, his hands hold the letter. A woman, next to him, serves the costumers. It seems like she doesn’t want to bother him who doesn’t look present at the time.

            Back to what my friend told me, that I will not live long, that I will die young. I think he’s not the first one to tell about it. He’s not the one who makes this thought takes over my mind. It’s me, I think about it a lot. Are you thinking that I am desperate, Papa? Well, have you ever met a cheerful girl but me? This thought comes in the morning as I wake up, in the day when I drown myself into pile of books and comes more often in the night. I try to put it aside, I don’t want to think about it, I remember a saying, may be a question. It says like this, “What could be worse than a living man who always think about his death?”

            The sun shines so bright. The puddles begin to dry. The drop of water from the roof stops. People’s still wandering. An old woman’s looking for some fresh chicken meat, choosing. Will it make any difference? A woman beside the man serves her. Chopping the chicken meats, after measuring them of course, put them into the plastic bag while answering the old woman’s questions are the service she has to give to every costumer. A smile, whether it is sweet or bitter, has to be on her lips. As what she does right now, regarding the man next to him who’s just stiff with his mind totally into lines of words on the letter that he holds, not really, he squeezes.

            Do I fear death, Papa? My hands tremble as I write this letter to you. Some parts of me say, “Do not continue, it’s too scary. While others, I guess the more dominant ones, lead my hand to continue writing. I won’t be able, Papa. This thing is not to be stopped. It flows and forces me to pour down whatever I feel. I know, you don’t speak a lot, Papa. I won’t speak much too. I do not fear madness, Papa, I really don’t. Even if I won’t be able to write you a single word I’m sure I will find ways to talk to you.

            Sweat drops, faster and faster. It starts from the face then all over the body. The day’s getting hot. The man, a man who never stops wandering, now is nothing but a statue. His breath sounds harsh, coming from his old body that day after day’s getting weaker. Still, he pays his attention to the letter. Still he spells word after word that only God knows what he could possible think. No one knows because he is just a man who doesn’t speak a lot, not to his own blood.

            Will it be the last, Papa? I do not know. Do not cry for me. This is not to be regretted, I will never regret it. I may be just disappear and will suddenly come back, not with the same look but may be in a different form. I told you once that I will write my own destiny. You know what, Papa, I guess I’m writing my own ending now.






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