Letter to Juliet


Wednesday, 3 November 2010


Dear Juliet:


In my life all I ever wanted is to say, I do.


I have been struggling over these past couple of years that I come of age. I must do, dear Juliet. I must struggle to find my one true love.


They all say to me, like Tom did in Kazuo Ishiguro’s Never Let Me Go: “But all this rushing about you do. All this getting exhausted and being by yourself. I’ve been watching you. It’s wearing you out. You must do, Kath, you must sometimes wish they’d tell you you can stop. I don’t know why you don’t have a word with them, ask them why it’s been so long [to send you your notice that your work as a carer is done].”


I don’t believe that anything not, especially in love, can be given to us freely without a will.

It is, love, that is, when it is in its truest words that are put together with care and concern for my tiniest details.


I don’t know when to stop suffering in this pain I’m drowning myself into, and I can’t stop suffocating from that, because I almost don’t believe in a lasting love anymore.


“Yeah, well, maybe it won’t be for much longer anyway. But for now, I have to keep going. Even if you don’t want me around, there are others who do.” I have to keep running. Honestly, I am exhausted, putting my efforts to yield something of value on a constant basis. As it is to me, love is the most valuable thing in the world, just because it lasts forever. They keep telling me nothing does, but I resist because I believe.


With my exhaustion building up all these years, I almost stop doing so.


My nonage was color-filled with rebellious spirits somewhere deep inside my nature, wherein I fight for love that my parents forbade.

Was it love? Was it not? I didn’t know back then, that’s why I ventured.
The first time I didn’t understand. The second time, I then knew.

Relationships that don’t change, don’t last. Because to resist change is to fight nature.


As I face my solitude years alone in this cold, cold world, I begin to make friends with everyone’s enemy – time. I’ve built my very own momentum towards an everlasting love, that last bit of love that I hope you can encourage me to still believe in.


I resist fighting my childish nature to have grown into this resistant woman, came-of-age, and afraid to open my heart freely once more.


It’s not because out of fear that love might take me away and make me lose myself, but because I distrust a stranger’s wits whose intentions I can see from their eyes are not purely out of love, but of other things, superficial things, that won’t last.


Tell me, Juliet:


Should I give up and lose myself into the dark mysteries of these approaching men, letting them take away my feminine soul? Or, should that one of him who protects me, shelters me, and gives me my freedom, I have to keep trying to believe in my Romeo?

Letter to MISTER Y.


To: Future husband (Identity unknown until further investigation), no date


I don’t know who you are, but I know you’re somewhere out there. Or somewhat. Or somehow. Just like you always say that I’m really something.

To date, I’ve writ these words in no date, just as there is no expiration date for love that’s everlasting.

I am crafting my story because of you. Let me be your novel. Or your novelty. You can have both at a time, or nothing at all. I am just fine in solitude, though I can always be better when I’m with you.
I love the way you read me, in every way that you see me, no-matter and how-ever hard I tried using the playful arts to hide myself, with you always watching over me like this, nature’s always fooling me back into love, pulling me back to your attention.

You read my lips, things written in my eyes,
You read me from the written things I show to the world out there,
You respond through rewriting what has been written,
And you watch me over, and over again.


I blush everytime I realize that you are watching over me with that smile. Everytime I see other people, I mention how mysterious you are: “He makes me feel . . .”

It may-be, honey, that we’re together with our love story because that’s how I love the novelty of taking the long road along Addison St., to skip all the formalities, and just go with the flow.


We have no dates whatsoever, neither meeting in pretensions nor putting on acts, because we’ve won it and earned it before everybody else does. That which was written Maktub in the Arabic language. It was written, remember?

Sunday: 日曜日 (Sun) She continues living through the power of the Sun. Light shows her the way.

Monday: 月曜日 (Moon) She flies to the moon.

Tuesday: 火曜日 (Fire) She’s hot as burning fire (when she grows up).

Wednesday: 水曜日 (Water) She’s the love of His and his life.

Thursday: 木曜日 (Wood) MISTER Y. (mystery)

Friday: 金曜日 (Metal) Whatever she really needs, she already has it all.

Saturday: 土曜日 (Earth) She reminds herself that she has a tight connection with Mother Earth. She gets back in touch with all things natural.