Dear Dead Friend,
The other day someone asked me about the moments in my life when I was calm and relaxed, and my heart couldn’t help remembering you. Hope you are doing well. I am sorry, this wasn’t an appropriate way to ask about your well being. It’s been a while since we talked, and I miss talking to you. I remember you often and sometimes mention you to people, I tell them you are dead. What I don’t tell them is I killed you. But I am not a murderer, I didn’t plan to murder you. It was a slow death caused by ignorance, detachment, impassive behaviour. If I tell you I am sorry, will you believe me? Will you forgive me? Before you decide to forgive me or not, give me a chance to justify my act of ignorance.
Believe me I was the happiest when I found you some sixteen years back. Some might say I created you but I was too naïve to create something like you. I was limited to scribbling on the back side of notebooks, emailing my friends some random thoughts. Then a friend suggested I should create you. And you were born with the name “Confessions”. I was naïve and barely had an idea on how blogs work, forget finding a nice name! With you I discovered a freedom that I didn’t know existed. I was unapologetically myself and you never complained. I nurtured you with utmost attention. I was a regular blogger back then. Weekly posts were like a mandatory to do thing on my list. I didn’t care what the world thought about our conversations. I obviously enjoyed it when people popped in to listen to our conversation. And I didn’t mind when they didn’t. I was that writer who wrote for herself. I was content with what we had. I remember those nights when I would click the post button and share the link with a close circle of friends and anxiously wait for their comments though I didn’t bother about their opinion at all. But it gave me a sense of satisfaction that there are people out there who can spare some time out of their busy schedule to read a piece of my heart. I can’t imagine there was a time when I had the time to type at least 1000-2000 words every week and there were people who had the time to read those posts. With time the weekly posts became monthly. Slowly I started losing the readers as well. We didn’t have the time to keep you active. I did not have the time to write, and they didn’t have the time to read. Most of the readers were my batchmates who could spare some time till the end of their college life to read my posts. I agree we also connected with so many strangers who could relate to every word we spoke. Remember how it made us happy? Gradually, the readers and the world around me changed. The naïve blogger was open to suggestions from readers. “Your posts are raw, people want drama, people want polished stuff with pictures. There is so much scope for improvement. Write for the readers and not for yourself, else how will it sell?” The list of suggestions kept increasing. I started incorporating couple of suggestions. But it didn’t feel like I was writing for myself anymore. It felt like I was slowly losing the essence of words, it was more about presentation and how some random person wanted to enjoy it.
I am sorry, I let you down. I understand how annoying it must have been for you when you were left untouched for days, months and then years. Did you miss me? I got busy with life and stopped doing things that made me feel alive. And if I had to write for myself, I would jot it down on my phone’s notes. Gradually, the concept of tiny tales evolved. Nobody wanted to read, they wanted just few words to catch their eye. I followed the race, and I will be honest with you I enjoyed it in the beginning. Few words, yet so impactful! But then the crowd didn’t want to use their eyes in reading words, they were open to listening to a 30 seconds narration. And those 30 seconds narration can take us some 30 days to write, edit, narrate, create a video! People barely listened to it or even understood. People stopped reading long formats, they preferred watching random people preaching on YouTube but reading was tiresome and out of fashion maybe..Suggestions kept pouring in on how to reach more views, while I felt I kept losing out on “readers”, people who savoured a piece of writing. Basically, nobody popped in to listen to our conversation.
I forgot the reason why the seven year old me had started writing, purely for the love of it. She didn’t bother about who read, who didn’t, who understood and who misunderstood. It was a whole different era when I wrote solely for myself. The times when I could just pour out my heart, about anything and everything without anyone judging it or finding it offensive, or finding it too happy or too sad. It is never enough. Perhaps I lost my way in the process of finding it. I do hope you forgive me for not being able to keep you alive as I was busy trying to survive in a world where readers are gradually dying!
Can we please keep in touch for old times sake?
Sincerely,The Lost Murderer
