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There is always a sigh of defeat once I finish writing about you. I read the work and wonder why I even tried. The fact is any attempt at immortalizing your character is bound to be a failure. How can I ever capture you in words? The misery is on my part: trying to scale you to mere inches of paragraphs, centimeters of sentences, and vibrant syllables of an adjective, is almost a disservice.

Why do I even try cupping the ocean knowing I am bound to fail? Perhaps, this is the only thing I know I could do well enough. For though silence carries heavier meanings, writing about you and writing for you, two different yet powerfully connected concepts and processes, give me a sense of hope and history. Even if you render language useless…

That as soon as I’ve written about you, and for you, I know I have put you in a definite place, and I can rely on history and in this case, a cyber-archive, to remind me of a feeling that would soon be gone, to remind me of a moment that will soon be memory, to remind me of a wound that would soon be a scar.

I know sometimes it comes to me as a matter of duty and as the works of necessity. But I write not to observe my obligations to inspiration, rather to hold you even if I can’t, touch you even if you won’t let me, and revel in emotion even if it seems preposterous.

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