To Esther (ghost letter).

11th November, 1917.

Dearest Esther,

I know I am at fault of not writing you any sooner though I got your last letter about two weeks ago, I do not even write as often as I have promised you. I cannot apologize to you enough, I cannot imagine what distress it must have caused you, given the turmoiled times. You always ask me to describe my surroundings in our correspondence, I have no idea whatsoever why do you stress on that detail, yet here goes..

You have seen my mahogany desk the last time you came, and you had seen the curious little collection on it, well, there has been new additions to it, namingly a skull that I bought (it somehow filled me with an immediate sense of curiosity) and a new pen and of course, your letters that are piled up in a neat stack, date wise. I still do not know what you will do with this silly detail, but I am assuming it is important for your work.

There is no apparent reason to write now either. Yes, true, that we do share a sort of relationship, but let me ask you this, would it be of any difference if we didn't write at all? Or wrote everyday? Can we, after all we have been through, endure it ? Do you not feel nauseated with your own distress which is solidified by such an amusing idea? I know I do. I cannot always express myself to you or to anyone through these papers, as much as I do love writing and tearing them out of spite and malice.
Now, do not mistake my apathy for my lack of passion about you or us. If you are, which I know you are, privy to my daily mundane routine of life as such and you have seen me in my darker moods, you will know that there are days when I am insensitive and cold to passion. These are the mornings when my only companion is my disheveled reflection and a continuous chain of thought and cigarettes. You have complained about it so many times. These hateful moments in my life are the ones when I find everything rancid, even your letters. I remember you, wrapped in the bedsheet and your big eyes, curiously prancing on the morning street down from my window, and your cigarette, and I hate you too, you too become rancid to me. These are the moments when I realize that the written kisses do not, cannot reach their destinations, everything is just a dying moment from it's inception. In an exaggerated moment of profundity, I find it even less important to do anything. The past few days had been filled with such moments and all I can do and am doing is nothing but throwing myself into a constant battle to at least resume my sanity.

Distorted as it may be, all of this is to be endured, intentionally and with a purpose. Here, my purpose to go through this abysmally depressing mood was to atleast write something substantial for you. Again I apologize to you, this isn't our regular correspondence of subtle poetry, I needed this. Yes, I have and do miss you and I cannot do anything but to endure it.

Yours now and always,

M.