i store my strong thought trains in jars of sad solitude, because i know how you hate it when i blurt them out. you say it reeks of a finality that stiffens you. you used to like that about me. the fire, the life and reality that i carried upon my relatively young shoulders. but now i hide my adjectives and imaginations in pickle jars in the corners of our house. they balance delicately, threatening to teeter this way rather than that.

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you live in a world full of space. you have a big bed, soft pillows, more clothes in cupboards than on your body, a TV and unopened boxes of gadgets. you create space all around you by giving away things that occupy unnecessary space. it's almost like you want the space to stretch your soul generously into the edges of our house, like an elaborate Persian carpet. it's almost like you have no space for conflicts, irritations or order. and i think to myself why don't you want to be alive?

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it feels like you don't want to be human. you want a serene life with simple needs. like you want to escape the complexities. you think life is so easy. gym, work, home, shower, drink, dinner and sleep. yes, it sounds so simple and tranquil. oh. and what happened to you when you lived like that? self-destruction? or was it depression?

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i was looking for a man who will extend his hands to carry my research papers, my laptop, my boxes of clothes and scraps of memories, my burnt heart, my slurring dreams...a man who is kind enough not to douse it in the kerosene of desire and hang it out the flames of inevitability.

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i refuse to believe. not because you aren't worthy of it. or because you will hate me if i do not.