Dear Yous

There is an ancient understanding of the nature of our beings that subscribes to the fact that Fate allows us, all of us, three friends. three great loves. three teachers that show us the way. and three people we hate (with reason or otherwise).

The same understanding also hints at the fact that Fate, like everything else, is nothing but a product of our choice. A result of our own reasonings to choose from the countless options given to us each instant. every instant.

So, essentially, every instant, we make choices that change and mould everything and everyone we can (or want to) be. and when we make our choices, our choices make us.

Adding one and two, like are often told to, each of these 12 people that Fate affords us are 12 people we have in fact chosen for ourselves, almost always without knowing of our own decisions. Since they dont come with signs on their foreheads (like they should do, if you ask me), they come disguised. To make our choices harder, and therefore, truer, in some sense. And often, we dont know of them until it is too late and we are too far gone to know we know them still. or in the same way.

Most of my words are for these people. Those that I know and dont know because, perhaps, in that unseeming manner that we seem to assume with those that we think we are close to, I have not allowed myself to see in all these places where I have only looked.

But these dear yous are not my dear yous alone. And often, they are for those in my head rather than those I have met, loved and lost. This, of course, is not to say that I have not loved. Or that I have not lost. And sadly, un-subconciously, there are words in these words athat are true and personal. And yous in these words who are real people, drinking thier chai in earthern pots, doing whatever it is they do to live. breathe. be.

I have known these yous. Some of them, I dont. Some more of them, I dont anymore. But most of them, I dont think I knew were yous when they were. And when I lost them, or just forgot to know them anymore (as I will have to shamelessly admit to, because its an anonymus blog), I thought could have been yous.

But all of them are yous that we all have. The could have, should have, might have been yous that we have loved. sometimes lost. sometimes wished we had lost earlier than we did.

This is my list of dear yous. That perhaps should rightfully have been written on old parchment with tear blotted ink, read with cold trembling hands. But because I am who I am, and all that I am, are being published in light almost gray yellow (which, incidentally, is manjal in tamizh), on a cold, black, comforting to me blog.

To you, my dear yous.