To a friend, on her 21st birthday

Dear Friend

When I think about the bond of our friendship, I see us as Hemingway and Fitzgerald in some fading monochromatic setting, with jazz music playing over the gramophone as the lights of the Eiffel Tower reflect from our windows and dance along with the rest our mates and us, who are intoxicated (not only from the beauty and grandeur of the scene) beyond the possible realms of this dark painful world. I picture Coleridge writing a poem for Charles Lamb to cheer him up from his state of desolation, endowing him with the fair wisdom of my favourite words, “Sometimes ’tis well to be bereft of promis’d good, that we may lift the soul, and contemplate with lively joy the joys we cannot share.”

In simple non metaphoric words, I view you as my contemporary and my dearest and rarest friend who actually understands what it means to have the curse (or gift) of having such an excruciating amount of thoughts, feelings, emotions, theories, perceptions, epiphanies, introspection, dreams, experiences, analysis, sentiments and revelations that until these images are out of our heads and onto paper, it is impossible for us to breathe again or carry on all other normal life functions. Our brains are wired in such a way that until and unless this thirst of our souls is satiated, we are surrounded by a cloud of utter uneasiness, decorated with the lingering lightening of hopelessness, hanging above our heads, preventing us from seeing the light.

Not being my usual morose depressive self, I pray for the happiness of your soul. I wish you find all that you have ever hoped for and beyond that. May the lovely stars of fate, love, luck and peace ever be shining the sky of your kingdom and you have years, as beautiful as you are, ahead of you. All good things to you, milady. Good morrow.


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